JULY,  1848. 

A  LIST  OF  BOOKS 


RECENTLY   PUBLISHED   BY 


JAMES  MUNROE  AND   COMPANY, 

134  tHUasItfnflton,  ©jposft*  .School  Street, 
BOSTON, 

AND      LYCEUM      BUILDING,      CAMBRIDGE. 


POETRY,  &C. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.     POEMS.    In  one  vol- 

ume,  16mo.    Fourth  edition,  pp.  251.    Price  87  cents, 
n. 

CHARLES   T.  BROOKS.     HOMAGE  OF  THE  ARTS, 

with  MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES  from  RUCHERT,  FREILIGRATH,  and  other 
German  Poets.    In  one  volume,  I6mo.  pp.  158.    Price  62  cents. 

in. 

EPES  SARGENT.     SONGS  OF  THE  SEA,  with  Other 

POEMS.    In  one  volume,  16mo.  pp.  208, 

IV. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING.     POEMS.     First 

and  Second  Series.     Price  62  cents  each. 
v. 

VERSES  OF  A  LIFE-TIME,  by  CAROLINE  OILMAN. 

IGmo.    In  Press. 

VI. 

JOHN  PIERPONT.     AIRS  OF  PALESTINE,  with  Other 

POEMS.    In  one  volume,  16mo.     Steel  Plate,    pp.  350.    Price  $1.00. 

THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL,  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  by 

WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.     16mo.    Illuminated  Title. 


2  A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 

VIII. 

GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER.     Select  Minor  POEMS. 

Translated  from  the  German,  with  Notes.    By  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  16mo. 
pp.  460.     Price  $1.00. 

IX. 

ESSAYS.     BY  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.     First  and 

Second   Series.  Fourth  Edition.    Revised.    IGmo.  pp.  each  350.    Price 
75  cents.     Either  volume  sold  separate. 


CHARLES  T.  BROOKS.  SONGS  and  BALLADS.  Trans- 

lated  from  Uhland,  Korner,  Burger,  and  other  German  Lyric  Poets. 
With  Notes.  12mo.  pp.  410.  Price  $1.00. 

XI. 

CHARLES  T.  BROOKS.     WILLIAM  TELL,  a  Drama, 

in  Five  Acts,  from  the  German  of  SCHILLER.  One  volume,  12mo. 
pp.  1-20.  Price  62  cents. 

-SCHILLER'S    WALLENSTEIN.      WALLENSTEIN'S 

CAMP.  Translated  from  the  German  of  Schiller,  by  GEORGE  Mom. 
With  a  Memoir  of  Albert  Wallenstein,  by  G.  W.  HAVEN.  16mo. 
pp.  142.  Price  50  cents. 

XIII. 

HENRY  TAYLOR.  PHILLIP  VAN  ARTEVELDE,  a  Dra- 

matic  Romance.    In  one  volume,  16mo.  pp.  252.    Price  $1.00. 

STEPHEN  G.  BULFINCH.     LAYS  OF  THE  GOSPEL. 

One  volume,  16mo.  pp.  206.    Price  75  cents. 


GOETHE'S    EGMONT.      EGMONT,   a   Tragedy   in 

Five  Acts.  Translated  from  the  German.  16mo.  pp.  152.  Price  3d  cents. 


THE  BONDMAID.     Translated  from  the  Swedish,  by 

MRS.  PUTNAM.    One  volume,  ICmo.  pp.  112.    Price  50  cents. 

XVII. 

LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY.     PLEASANT  MEMORIES  OF 

PLEASANT  LANDS.     Two  Steel  Plates.    IGmo.  pp.  382.    Price  $1.25. 

XVIII. 

LYDIA  H.   SIGOURNEY.     SCENES   IN  MY  NATIVE 

LAND.    Two  Steel  Plates,    IGmo.  pp.  320.    Price  $1.25. 


BY  JAMES  MUNROE  AND  COMPANY". 


TRANSLATIONS. 


ESSAYS  ON  ART.     Translated  from  the  German  of 

GOETHE,     by   SAMUEL  GRAY   WARD.     One   volume,   16mo.  pp.   264. 
Price  75  cents. 

11. 

WALT  AND  VULT,  OR  THE  TWINS.     Translated 

from    the   German  of  JEAN   PAUL  RICHTER,  by  MRS.  T.  LEE.    Two 
volumes,  16mo.  pp.  320.    Price  $1.00  each. 


FLOWER,  FRUIT,  AND   THORN  PIECES;   Or 

THE  MARRIED  LIFE,  DEATH  AND  WEDDING  OF  THE  ADVOCATE  OP  THE 
POOR,  FIRMIN  STANISLAUS  SIEBENKAS.  Translated  from  the 
German  of  JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER,  by  EDWARD  HENRY  NOEL.  Two 
volumes,  16mo.  First  Series,  pp.  348.  Second  Series,  pp.  400.  Price 
$1.00  each. 

IV. 

PHILOSOPHICAL    MISCELLANIES.      Translated 

from  the  French  of  COUSIN,  JOUFFROY,  and  B.  CONSTANT.  With  Intro 
ductory  and  Critical  Notices.  By  GEORGE  RIPLEY.  Two  volumes, 
12mo.  pp.  784.  Price  $1.00  each. 


SELECT  MINOR  POEMS.  Translated  from  the  Ger- 

man  of  GOETHE  and  SCHILLER,   with   Notes.    By  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT. 
One  volume,  12mo.  pp.  400.    Price  $1.00. 


ECKERMAN'S    CONVERSATIONS.      CONVERSA- 

TIONS  WITH  GOETHE  IN  THE  LAST  YEARS  OF  HIS  LIFE.  Translated 
from  the  German,  by  S.  M.  FULLER.  One  volume,  12mo.  pp.  440. 
Price  $1.00. 

VII. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  ETHICS.     Including  a  CRITI- 

CAL  SURVEY  OF  MORAL  SYSTEMS.  Translated  from  the  French  of 
JOUFFROY,  by  WILLIAM  H.  CHANNING.  Two  volumes,  12mo.  pp.  732. 
Prince  $1.00  each. 

VIII. 

GERMAN  LITERATURE.      Translated    from   the 

German  of  WOLFGANG  MENZEL,  by  CORNELIUS  C.  FELTON.  Three 
volumes,  J2mo.  pp.  1172.  Price  $1.00  each. 


JAMES  MONROE  AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THEODORE,  OR  THE  SCEPTIC'S  CONVERSION. 

HISTORY  OP  THE  CULTURE  OP  A  PROTESTANT  CLERGYMAN.  Translated 
from  the  German  of  DE  WETTE,  by  JAMES  F.  CLARKE.  Two  volumes, 
12mo.  pp.  798.  Price  $1.00  each. 


HUMAN  LIFE  ;  OR  LECTURES  ON  PRACTICAL  ETHICS. 

Translated  from  the  German  of  DE  WETTE,  by  SAMUEL  OSGOOD.    Two 
volumes,  12mo.  pp.  800.    Price  $1.00  each. 

XI. 

SONGS  AND  BALLADS  from  Uhland,  Korner,  Bur- 

ger,  and  other  Lyric  Poets.     Translated  from  the  German,  with  Notes, 
by  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS.     One  volume,  12mo.  pp.  360.    Price  $1.00. 


THE  NEIGHBORS.   BY  FREDERIKA  BREWER.   Trans- 

lated  by  MARY  HOWITT.    Two  volumes,  12mo.  pp.  488.  Price  50  cents 
each. 


GERMAN  ROMANCE.     Specimens  of  Its  Chief  Au- 

thors  ;  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices.    By  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 
Two  volumes,  IvJmo.    Steel  Portrait,    pp.  794.    Price  $1.50 


GUIZOT'S  ESSAY.     ESSAY  ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND 

INFLUENCE  OF  WASHINGTON  IN  THE  REVOLUTION  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES  OF  AMERICA.  Translated  from  the  French  by  GEORGE  S. 
HILI.AKD.  One  volume,  16mo.  pp.  204.  Price  50  cents. 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.   A  SKETCH.  By 

II  INS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSON.     Translated  by   MARY  HOWITT.    ICmo. 
pp.  306.    Price  62  cents. 


HEINE'S  LETTERS.     Letters  Auxiliary  to  the  His- 

tory  of  Modern  Polite  Literature   in   Germany.     Translated   from  the 
German,  by  G.  VV.  HAVEN.  One  volume,  IGmo.  pp.  172.  Price  50  cents 


VERSES 


OF 


A    LIFE    TIME. 


BY 

CAROLINE    GILMAN, 

AUTHOR   OP   RECOLLECTIONS   OP  A   SOUTHERN   MATRON,  LOVE'S   PROGRESS 
ORACLES   FROM   THE   POETS,   JUVENILE   POEMS,   &.C.    &C. 


BOSTON    AND    CAMBRIDGE: 
JAMES     MUNROE     AND     COMPANY. 


MDCCCXLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

JAMES    MITNROE  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


BOSTON  : 

THURSTON,    TORRY    AND    COMPANY, 
31  Devonshire  Street. 


TO 


MY     DAUGHTER     ANNIE 


1823041 


CONTEXTS. 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC    AND    OTHER  SKETCHES. 

PAGE 
THE    BETROTHED  .....  3 

THE    NEAPOLITAN    BOYS          .                  .                   .  9 

ISADORE                  .                   .                   .                   .  .                   .11 

JOSHUA'S  COURTSHIP           .            .             .  18 

THE  TRAVELLER  FROM  NORTH  CAROLINA  .            .       22 

MARY  ANNA  GIBBES             .             .             .  25 

THE  MONARCH  AT  PRAYER         .             .  .             .32 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  LOVE  SONG            .            .  35 

ROSALIE                   .                   .                   .                  .  .                   .38 

THE  MERCHANT'S  BRIDE      .             .             .  47 

THE  GAMESTER              .            .            .  .            .56 

A    BALLAD    .                  .                   .                   .                   .  61 

A    NEW   ENGLAND   BALLAD              .                 .  .                  .75 

FRANCISCO    DE    RIBALTA          .                  .                   .  81 

MARY  LEE              .                   .                   .                  .  .                  .86 

THE    CROW-MINDER    OF    THE    SOUTH                     .  .          .          90 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ANNIE  IN  THE  GRAVE- YARD  .             .              .             .94 

THE  WARRIOR         .             .  .             .                             96 

THE  YOUNGEST  ONE       .  .              .              .             .99 

"  BEYOND  THE  SABBATH  "  .             .             .        .     101 

THE  SAILOR'S  DAUGHTER  ....     105 

ISAAC  HAYNE         .            .  .            .            .            107 
JAIRUS'  DAUGHTER        .....     124 

JEPTHAH'S  RASH  vow        .  .             .             .       .     127 

THE    MAIDEN    AND    THE    MARINER  132 


THOUGHTS     IN    JOURNEYING. 

THE  CONGRESSIONAL  BURYING-GROUND  .               .             .  137 

THE  RELEASED  CONVICT'S  CELL      .            .            .  110 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD  IN  THE  CITY          .            .            .  142 

THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK    .             .              .             .  143 

SARATOGA  LAKE             .....  145 

MUSIC  ON  THE  CANAL         .             .              .              .       .  147 

THE  WEST-POINT  EAGLE             ....  150 

TRENTON  FALLS,  NEW  YORK          .            .            .       .  152 
SWEET  AUBURN             .            .            .            .            .154 

WASHINGTON'S  ELM  AT  CAMBRIDGE                          .       .  157 

THOUGHTS  ON  PASSING  PLATTSBURG      .             .             .  160 

TO  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE       .             .             .             .       .  161 

TO  THE  URSULINES       .....  162 

RETURN  TO  MASSACHUSETTS            .             .              .  164 

ANSWER,  ETC.                .....  166 


CONTENTS  Vll 

PAGE 
HYMNS. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  SABBATH  .  .  .  .171 

PATIENCE    .              .             .             .              .             .  173 

DISAPPOINTMENT             .....  175 

THE  ORPHAN'S  ANNUAL  HYMN        .             .             .       .  176 

ORPHAN'S  HYMN            .....  178 

TEMPTATION  RESISTED        .             .             .             .       .  180 

ST.  LUKE,  IX.    .             .             .             .             .              .  182 

GOD  OUR  FATHER    .                                         ...  184 


TEMPERANCE      SONGS,     &c. 

COME,  SIGN  THE  VOW  ....  187 

THE  FORT  MOULTRIE  TEMPERANCE  FLAG     .  .       .  190 

WHAT  WOKE  ME  FROM  MY  DREAM         .  .  .  193 

TEMPERANCE  FLOWERS        .  .  .  .       .  195 

THE  OYSTER'S  APPEAL  TO  THE  PUBLIC  197 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  AMERICAN  EOY       .....  203 

TO  A  FRIEND           .             .             '             .             .       .  207 

THOUGHTS  ON  A  BALL  ROOM     ....  208 

THE  MAIDEN'S  CHOICE         .             .             .             .       .  210 
THE  GENTLEMAN'S  CHOICE         .             .             .             .211 

THE  COUNTERFEIT  .             .             .             .              .  212 

AN  INCIDENT                                                                         .  214 


via 


PAGE 

SEVENTEEN                    .                   .                   .                  .                  .  216 

CHILDREN    AT   PLAY           .....  218 

O    COME,    MAIDENS,    COME  !                      ....  220 

TO   AN    INFANT   BOY         .....  223 

HOUSEHOLD    WOMAN                  .                   .                   .                   .  225 

THOUGHTS    ON    ZERLINA    THORN                     .                  .                  .  226 

STANZAS        .                  .                   .                   .                   .                  .  228 

ST.  MICHAEL'S  TOWER               ....  229 

MOTHER,  WHAT  IS  DEATH  ?             .             .             .  232 

A    SKETCH              ......  234 

TO  MISS  .             .             .             .             .       .  236 

CITY  CLOUDS  AND  STARS            ....  238 

A   LAMENT                      .                  .                  .                  .                             .  241 

TO    MY    DAUGHTER             .....  246 

MIDNIGHT    AT    SULLIVAN'S    ISLAND    .                  .                  .  249 

MY    PIAZZA           ......  252 

MY    GARDEN                  .                   .                   .                   .                   .  256 

MY    KNITTING    WORK                                                                                    .  261 


BALLADS,  DRAMATIC 


OTHER   SKETCHES. 


BALLADS,     DRAMATIC 


OTHER    SKETCHES. 


THE    BETROTHED. 

Scene  —  A   Southern   Plantation  —  Noon. 
MOTHER. 

WHY  linger  near  me,  Emma,  with  that  cheek 
Which  colors  up  in  flushings  like  the  sky 
Lit  by  the  sinking  sun  ?   Why  from  thine  hand 
Falls  the  small  needle,  as  e'en  that  were  weight 
Too  large?  What  mean  these  broken  words  and  sighs, 
Now  passionate,  then  sinking  down  so  low 
That  I  must  bend  mine  ear  to  catch  the  tone  ? 
Hark,  is  that  Edgar's  step  ? 


4  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

EMMA. 

O,  mother,  dear  — 

MOTHER. 

My  child,  my  simple  child,  it  needs  not  words 
To  tell  me  now  —  indeed,  I  've  known  it  long. 
Think' st  thou,  that  I  could  see  the  lily's  leaves 
Floating  like  living  things  upon  the  wave, 
And  guess  not  that  the  tide  did  move  them  thus? 
Think'st  thou  that  when  the  rose's  bloom  is  stirr'd, 
I  know  not  the  breeze,  with  waving  breath, 
Is  sweeping  o'er  its  rich  and  blushing  leaves? 
Or  when  the  wind-harp  wakes  with  thrilling  tones, 
I  know  not  the  same  breeze,  kissing  its  strings, 
Doth  call  its  murmurs?  Just  as  plain  to  me, 
Is  it,  that  love,  my  child,  hath  touch'd  thy  soul ! 
Nay,  start  not,  Emma,  'tis  no  sin  to  love.  — 
But  come,  and  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  tell  me  all.     I  will  not  seek  thine  eyes, 
Nor  pierce  their  sable  fringe,  but  clasp  thy  hand, 
Thy  fair,  soft  hand,  whose  tender  pressure  shall 
Speak  half  thy  tale. 


My  gentle  mother,  how 
Can  I  for  any  other  love  neglect 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  O 

Thy  love  !    Nor  did  I,  nor  did  Edgar  thus  ; 
And  when  this  morn  he  urg'd  his  eager  suit, 
Thy  name  was  blent  in  fondness  with  my  own. 
Rememberest  thou,  O  yes,  thou  never  canst 
Forget  the  day,  when,  but  a  thoughtless  girl, 
With  springing  step  and  floating  hair,  I  sought 
The  river  bank,  whereon  my  brothers  sat, 
Throwing  the  line  to  lure  their  watery  prey  ; 
Eager  to  see  their  prisoner  caught,  I  lean'd 
On  a  young  sapling  with  unconscious  weight, 
And  fell  —  when  Edgar  saw  —  he  sprang  —  impetuous, 
Leap'd  to  the  wave,  and  with  sustaining  strength 
Upbore  me  till  assistance  came.     How  quick 
Is  thought !    Though  reeling,  dizzy,  just  upon 
The  brink  of  dark  futurity,  this  hope 
Come  lighting  like  a  torch  my  youthful  heart, 
Edgar  will  be  my  friend  !  I  knew  not  love, 
Or  then,  perchance,  I  might  have  said,  my  love  ! 

Ere  long  he  left  us  for  more  classic  bowers  ; 
But  tidings  often  came  of  one,  who  stood 
Before  his  classmates  with  a  laurell'd  brow, 
Winning  with  graceful  ease  the  frequent  prize. 
Nor  this  alone  ;  I  heard  of  generous  deeds, 
Where  the  kind  heart  outshone  the  sparkling  mind, 
As  yon  white  blossoms  grace  the  laurel  tree. 


O  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  tokens  sometimes  came  rememberingly, 
(Thou  knowest  them,  mother,  well)  —  a  drawing  once 
Of  a  young  girl  just  rescued  from  the  waves, 
With  eyes  seal'd  up  like  blossoms  in  rude  storms  ; 
He  had  not  sketch'd  her  young  deliverer; 
For  modesty  is  nature  in  him,  but 
My  vision  fancied  there  the  ardent  boy, 
His  chestnut  curls  crush'd  by  the  sweeping  stream, 
His  panting  chest,  his  opening  lips,  his  eyes 
Starting  in  fear,  and  doubt,  and  growing  joy, 
When  I  unfolded  mine.  —  Sometimes  a  flower 
Was  sent,  or  leaf,  gather'd  perchance  in  some 
Lone,  musing  hour  ;   or  color'd  sea-shell,  which, 
In  whispers  to  mine  ear,  told  a  soft  tale 
I  whisper'd  not  again. 

Time  roll'd,  and  he, 

That  distant  one,  crown'd  with  collegiate  fame, 
Return'd.     He  sought  me,  mother,  and  this  morn, 
Where  the  clematis  bower  shuts  out  the  sun, 
And  the  fond  birds  pour  forth  their  loving  lays, 
lie  ask'd  me  for  my  heart.  —  I  answer'd  not ; 
But,  mother,  it  was  his  on  that  far  morn, 
When  shuddering  from  the  river's  depth  I  woke 
WTithin  his  arms. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  t 

MOTHER. 

Thanks,  love,  for  this  fond  trust. 
O,  never  should  a  daughter's  thoughts  find  rest 
On  kinder  pillow  than  a  mother's  heart. 
But  Edgar  comes.  —  Look  up  and  meet  his  smile. 
****** 

Yes,  take  her  hand,  and  with  it  a  young  heart 
Full  of  love's  first  devotion.     'T  is  a  charge, 
My  son,  most  precious!     When  she  errs,  reprove, 
Spare  not  deserv'd  reproof;  she  has  been  train'd 
In  Christ's  high  school,  and  knows  that  she  is  frail, 
And  she  can  bear  the  probe  when  brought  by  love. 
But  of  neglect  beware !    Cherish  her  well ; 
For  should  the  breath  of  coldness  fall  on  her, 
Thou  wouldst  hear  no  complaint,  but  thou  wouldst  see 
Her  sink  into  the  grave,  as  the  green  leaves 
Shrivel  and  fade  beneath  autumnal  winds. 

It  is  a  struggle  hard  to  bear,  my  son, 
When  a  fond  mother's  cherish'd  flower  is  borne, 
Gently  transplanted,  to  a  happy  home  ; 
But  deeper  far  than  death's  the  withering  pancr, 
To  see  her  sought  a  few  short  months  of  pride, 
Her  beauties  cherish'd,  and  her  odors  priz'd, 
And  then  thrown  by  as  lightly  as  the  weed, 
The  trampled  weed  along  the  traveller's  path. 


8  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And,  O,  bethink  thee,  Edgar,  of  her  sold, 
And  lead  her  in  the  heavenly  road  to  God. 
In  that  great  day,  when  mortal  hearts  are  bare, 
Motives  and  deeds  before  the  Eternal  throne, 
Beware  lest  I,  with  earnest  pleadings,  sue 
To  thee  for  this  sweet  child  !  Brincr  her  to  me 

O 

A  blessed  spirit,  wrapt  in  robes  of  grace, 
And  if  there's  gratitude  in  heavenly  bowers, 
O,  thou  shalt  hear  its  full  and  gushing  tones 
Rise  in  thanksgiving  from  a  mother's  soul  ! 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1835 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES. 


THE    NEAPOLITAN    BOYS. 


At  the  Revolution  in  Naples,  in  1779,  two  brothers,  one  fifteen,  the 
other  twelve  years  old,  were  condemned  to  death,  and  upon  the 
entreaties  of  their  mother,  the  King's  attorney  told  her  that  he 
could  spare  one  of  them,  and  bade  her  choose.] 

I  CANNOT  tell  —  I  dare  not  tell, 

On  which  the  fearful  choice  shall  rest ; 

They  both  have  frolick'd  'rieath  my  gaze, 
They  both  were  nurtur'd  at  my  breast. 

O,  Henry,  Henry,  look  not  thus 
In  silence  on  thy  mother's  face ! 

Speak,  speak,  my  patient  boy,  and  break 
That  spell  of  melancholy  grace. 

And  yet  thy  shrill  and  startling  cry, 
My  Edward,  cuts  thy  mother's  soul ; 

That  pleading  voice  I  cannot  bear,  — 
Thy  dreadful  eloquence  control. 


10  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Thy  wooing  smile,  thine  eye  of  blue, 
How  oft  thy  father  call'd  them  mine ! 

Can  I  give  up  the  look  he  prais'd  ? 
Can  I  that  eye  of  love  resign  ? 

My  boy !  my  boy  !  I  thought  that  thou 
Shouldst  smooth  my  pillow  at  its  close  ; 

I  hoped  thy  kind  and  soothing  hand, 
Would  rock  life's  cradle  of  repose. 

And  thou,  my  Henry,  with  thy  brow 
And  eagle  look  of  high  emprize ; 

I  dream'd  that  thou  wouldst  clear  my  path, 
And  guard  the  way  where  danger  lies. 

That  brow,  that  look,  t\\y  father's  look, 
O  no  !  I  cannot  bid  thee  die  : 

Would  they  had  wrapt  me  in  his  shroud, 
How  tranquilly  I  there  could  lie  ! 

Go,  boys  —  away  !  I  will  not  choose  ; 

God  must  resume  the  lives  he  gave  — 
For  me,  I  bear  a  breaking  heart, 

Which  soon  will  lay  me  in  the  grave. 

1835. 


AXD    OTHER    SKETCHES.  II 


I  S  A  D  0  R  E\ 


A    DRAMATIC    SKETCH. 


Scene  1st  —  A  Garden. 

v 
FATHER. 

SHE  comes,  my  Isadore,  how  large  the  claim, 

The  double  claim,  she  lays  upon  my  care 

For  her  sweet  self,  and  almost  dearer  still, 

As  her  pure  mother's  dying  gift  of  love! 

How  rich  the  rose  is  opening  on  her  cheek  ! 

Not  the  red  rose's  hue,  but  that  soft  dye 

That  slowly  fades  like  morning  clouds,  which  melt 

In  mottled  softness  on  the  whitening  heav'n. 

Her  chestnut  locks  float  in  the  sunshine  free ! 

Her  soft  blue  eyes,  deep  in  their  tenderness, 

Reflect  all  beautiful  and  kindly  things. 

She  would  seem  infantile,  but  that  her  brow 

In  lilied  majesty  uptowers,  and  tells 

That  lofty  thought  and  chasten'd  pride  are  there ! 

And  must  I  break  the  calm  of  that  young  spirit  ? 
Come  o'er  that  peaceful  lake  with  ruffling  storms  ? 


1'2  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Wake  up  its  billowy  strife,  and  wreck  perchance 
The  forms  of  hope  that  float  above  its  depths  ? 

[Isadore  enters. 

My  child.  —  She  knows  what  I  would  say,  and  reads 
The  thoughts  which  only  yestermorn  I  breath'd 
With  sympathetic  sighs  and  mournful  tone 
Into  her  startled  ear.  —  List,  Isadore. 

ISADORE. 

I  may  not  listen,  father.     I  have  vow'd 
On  the  high  altar  of  a  faithful  heart 
To  be  his  bride,  and  I  will  keep  the  vow. 

FATHER. 

But  thou  didst  vow  to  purity  and  truth, 

At  least  its  semblance,  and  thou  wert  deceiv'd. 


Deceiv'd,  my  father?     Look  upon  his  eyes 
Where  truth  lies  mirror'd  ;  look  upon  his  lips 
That  speak  in  wreathed  smiles  ingenuous, 
And  then  thou  canst  not  say  I  am  deceiv'd. 

Last  eve,  it  was  a  calm  and  lovely  one, 
We  stood  upon  this  garden-mound,  where  flowers, 
Sprang  up  like  blessings  'neath  our  happy  tread; 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  13 

The  moon  look'd  down  with  that  still  gentle  eye 
With  which  she  greets  young  love;  —  courage  I  drew 
From  the  pure  beaming  of  her  heavenly  gaze, 
And  when  my  hand  poor  Julian  took,  I  breathed 
Our  traitor  fears  —  an  angry  flush,  that  spake 
Of  injur'd  innocence,  lit  up  his  brow. 
Unjust,  ungenerous  Isadore  !  he  said, 
Think'st  thou  the  nectar-beverage  of  the  gods 
Could  tempt  me  from  thy  love  ?     No,  Isadore  ; 
Perchance  I  might,  not  knowing  thee,  have  prized 
A  coarser  joy  —  but  now  that  thy  young  heart 
In  love's  pulsation  answers  true  to  mine, 
Now  that  thy  lips,  blushing  and  faltering, 
Have  seal'd  thy  vow,  I  never  more  can  stray. 

FATHER. 

My  Isadore,  'tis  hard  to  break  the  wreath, 
That  buds  and  twines  around  a  faithful  heart. 
But,  dearest,  love  has  blinded  thee,  nor  canst 
Thou  see  the  incipient  form  of  woe.    His  words, 
Heartless  to  me,  like  oracles  arrest 
Thy  listening  ear  ;  his  eyes  with  revel  glazed, 
Seem  but  to  thee  bright  orbs  of  hope  and  truth. 
Arouse  thyself,  my  child,  awake,  awake! 
Thou'rt  folding  to  thy  heart  a  serpent's  coil, 


14  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  thou  wilt  feel  its  sting;  while  I,  alas, 
Who  took  thee  from  thy  dying  mother's  breast, 
Her  last  sad  gift,  and  nurs'd  thy  feeble  frame ; 
Who  watch'd  thy  gentle  slumbers,  and  on  whom 
Thy  first  smile  fell  like  dawning  light  from  heaven, 
When  with  the  ray  of  young  intelligence 
It  broke  its  infant  chaos  ;  I  who  saw 
Thy  little  feet,  and  heard  thy  shout  of  joy, 
When  with  a  tottering  step  thou  gain'dst  my  arms ; 
I,  who  perceiv'd  thy  rich  and  active  mind 
Ope  to  high  culture  ;  and  to  whom  indeed 
No  longer  child,  thou  hast  become  a  friend, 
Shall  see  thee  chain'd  for  aye,  (nay,  I  must  speak,) 
To  one,  who,  caught  by  sensual,  low  desires, 
Knows  not  the  precious  value  of  the  pearl 
Which  melts  within  his  coarse  and  turbid  grasp. 


Father,  'tis  not  that  any  girlish  pride, 
Low  principle,  or  tendency  to  wrong 
Enthrals  me,  that  I  cling  to  Julian  thus  : 
I  gave  my  heart  to  virtuous  love  —  but  if, 
In  any  space  of  time  thy  will  demands, 
I  find  him  aught  that  virtue  shall  condemn, 
I  pledge  myself  to  cast  him  from  my  heart 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  !,"> 

As  lightly  as  the  vessel  flings  the  spray 

That  gathers  on  its  prow.  — Think'st  thou  thy  child, 

Whom  thou  hast  train'd  with  strong  and  upward  hopes, 

And  clothed  with  faith  as  armor,  and  inspired 

With  trust  that  that  high  spark  thou  call'st  her  soul 

Shall  rise  and  mingle  with  th'  eternal  flame, 

Will  stoop  to  be  the  victim  of  unblest 

Desires?  —  No,  hear  me,  Heaven!   and  father,  hear  ; 

If  it  be  true,  (and  O  my  God,  if  prayers 

And  groans,  and  tears,  issuing  in  troubled  strife 

From  out  a  bursting  heart,  are  heard  above, 

It  will  not  be,)  if  it  indeed  be  true, 

That  Julian  seeks  the  reveller's  haunt,  1  vow 

To  thee,  who,  having  fram'd  the  mind,  dost  claim 

Its  homage,  that  these  lips  shall  proudly  spurn 

His  cherish'd  name.     Spurn,  did  I  say  ?    Ah  no  ; 

For  the  close  tendrils  of  a  faithful  love 

Will  cling  around  me  still,  but  I  will  loose, 

Gently  and  firmly  from  my  fetter'd  soul, 

Their  twining  hold;  yes,  father  —  though  I  die. 

****** 

Scene  2d —  the  Garden  Mound  —  Sunset. 
ISADORE. 

'T  is  done,  and  I  am  free  —  so  is  the  oak 
O'er  which  the  storm  with  lightning  wrath  hath  sped 


10  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  left  a  ghastly  pile  —  so  is  the  wave, 

The  cold  and  midnight  wave,  that  tosses  on 

Beneath  a  stormy  sky  —  so  is  the  star 

When  clouds  are  drifting  round  its  lonely  path, 

And  other  stars  are  gone  !     O,  father,  father, 

Take  me  to  your  kind  arms  —  they  will  not  sear 

Nor  scorch  me  with  the  drunkard's  burning  touch, 

Nor  shall  I  hear  thy  unpolluted  lips 

Pour  forth  the  babblings  of  a  reeling  brain. 

[  Throws  herself  into  her  father's  arms. 


Heroic  child  !    thine  was  a  high  resolve, 
And  followed  up  in  nobleness  of  soul! 
I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  compromise  with  sin, 
Nor  give  soft  names  to  foul  intemperance. 
She  hears  me  not  —  my  Isadore  —  look  up  ; 
Thy  father's  arms  are  round  thee,  and  he  knows 
Thy  deep,  deep  woe.     Alas,  poor  stricken  flower, 
Thou  wert  not  made  for  this  unkindly  storm  ! 
Thy  cheek  is  pale,  beloved,  pale  with  grief; 
Distended  on  thy  marble  brow  and  lids 
(Too  sad  for  tears)  arise  the  struggling  veins, 
And  thou  dost  start  as  if  some  fearful  task 
Oppress'd  thee  still. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES. 


17 


Almighty  !    thou  who  know'st 

The  anguish'd  throes  with  which  the  youthful  hand 
Cuts  its  own  hopes,  look  down  upon  my  child, 
Comfort  and  bless  her  in  this  bitter  hour  ! 

My  prayer  is  heard  ;   she  rests,  and  to  her  lips 
A  smile,  almost  serene,  has  wing'd  its  way. 

ISADORE  [in  a  low  tone.] 

Father,  I've  dream'd ;  and  as  my  half-form'd  thoughts 
Came  bruis'd  and  bleeding  through  my  riven  mind, 
I  seem'd  to  grope,  where  in  the  far  gray  depths 
With  waving  robes,  above  a  dark  abyss, 
I  saw  a  shadowy  form.     It  beckon'd  me, 
And  eagerly  I  strove  to  reach  its  side, 
Until  I  saw  '  Temptation'  on  its  brow 
Inscribed.  Then  pray'd  a  voice,  "Lead  me  not  there!" 
From  my  own  heart  it  came  distinct  arid  calm. 
Again  I  look'd,  and  there  in  golden  hues, 
AVhile  floated  off  the  form  in  inurky  clouds, 
Blazed  the  word  Duty,  and  once  more  the  voice 
Stirr'd  in  my  soften'd  soul,  "Those  ivhom  he  loves 
lie  chastens." 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1835. 


18  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


JOSHUA'S     COURTSHIP. 

A    NEW    ENGLAND    BALLAD. 

STOUT  Jcshua  was  a  farmer's  son, 

And  a  pondering  lie  sat 
One  night,  when  the  faggots  crackling  burn'd, 

And  purr'd  the  tabby  cat. 

Joshua  was  a  well-grown  youth, 

As  one  might  plainly  see 
By  the  sleeves  that  vainly  tried  to  reach 

His  hands  npon  his  knee. 

His  splay-feet  stood  all  parrot-toed 

In  cow-hide  shoes  array'd, 
And  his  hair  seem'd  cut  across  his  brow 

By  rule  and  plummet  laid. 

And  what  was  Joshua  pondering  on, 

With  his  widely  staring  eyes, 
And  his  nostrils  opening  sensibly 

To  ease  his  frequent  sighs  ? 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  11) 

Not  often  will  a  lover's  lips 

The  tender  secret  tell, 
But  out  he  spoke,  before  he  thought, 

"  My  gracious  !  Nancy  Bell !  " 

His  mother  at  her  spinning-wheel 

Good  woman  stood  and  spun, 
"  And  what,"  says  she,  "  is  come  o'er  you, 

Is  't  airnest  or  is  't  fun  ?  " 

Then  Joshua  gave  a  cunning  look, 

Half  bashful  and  half  sporting, 
"  Now  what  did  father  do,"  says  he, 

"  When  first  he  came  a  courting  ?  " 

"  Why  Josh,  the  first  thing  that  he  did," 

With  a  knowing  wink  said  she, 
"He  dress'd  up  of  a  Sunday  night, 

And  cotsf  sheep's  eyes  *  at  me." 

Josh  said  no  more,  but  straight  went  out 

And  sought  a  butcher's  pen, 
Where  twelve  fat  sheep,  for  market  bound, 

Had  lately  slaughtered  been. 


*  Tender  glances. 


20  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

He  bargain'd  with  a  lover's  zeal, 
Obtain'd  the  wish'd  for  prize, 

And  fill'd  his  pockets  fore  and  aft 
With  twice  twelve  bloody  eyes. 

The  next  night  was  the  happy  time 
When  all  New  England  sparks, 

Drest  in  their  best,  go  out  to  court 
As  spruce  and  gay  as  larks. 

When  floors  are  nicely  sanded  o'er, 
When  tins  and  pewter  shine, 

And  milk-pans  by  the  kitchen  wall 
Display  their  dainty  line ; 

While  the  new  ribbon  decks  the  waist 
Of  many  a  waiting  lass, 

Who  steals  a  conscious  look  of  pride 
Toward  her  answering  glass. 

In  pensive  mood  sat  Nancy  Bell ; 

Of  Joshua  thought  not  she, 
But  of  a  hearty  sailor  lad 

Across  the  distant  sea. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  21 

Her  arm  upon  the  table  rests, 

Her  hand  supports  her  head, 
When  Joshua  enters  with  a  scrape, 

And  somewhat  bashful  tread. 

No  word  he  spake,  but  down  he  sat 

And  heav'd  a  doleful  sigh; 
Then  at  the  table  took  his  aim 

And  roll'd  a  glassy  eye. 

Another  and  another  flew 

With  quick  and  strong  rebound, 
They  tumbled  in  poor  Nancy's  lap, 

They  fell  upon  the  ground. 

While  Joshua  smirk'd,  and  sigh'd,  and  smil'd 

Between  each  tender  aim, 
And  still  the  cold  and  bloody  balls 

In  frightful  quickness  came. 

Until  poor  Nancy  flew  with  screams 

To  shun  the  amorous  sport, 
And  Joshua  found  to  cast  shr.eps'  eyes 

Was  not  the  way  to  court. 

1832. 


22  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


A    BALLAD. 


THE  TRAVELLER  FROM  NORTH  CAROLINA. 

A    True    Story. 


THE  wintry  blast  was  loud  and  cold, 
And  clouds  flew  wildly  o'er  the  sky, 

The  hard  earth  crackled  'neath  the  feet, 
And  men  look'd  chill,  and  hurried  by. 

I  heard  a  low  rap  at  the  door, 

The  sound  that  speaks  a  suppliant's  call  ; 
Strange  contrast  with  bold  fashion's  note, 

Or  business'  short  and  steady  fall. 

She  enter'd  then  —  a  woman  lone, 
Bent  o'er  a  crutch,  and  pale  with  age, 

Not  hers  the  beggar's  studied  plea, 
Nor  arts,  that  guileless  hearts  engage. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  '23 

There  was  a  gentle  dignity, 

A  chasten'd  patience  in  her  strain  ; 

A  mien  of  grave  propriety, 

That  practis'd  vice  can  ne'er  attain. 

Her  dim  gray  eye  look'd  up  to  mine, 
"I  came,"  she  said,  "  a  distant  road  ; 

I'm  very  old,  and  very  poor ; 

And  have  no  friend  —  no  friend  but  God. 

"  My  son  to  Charleston  bent  his  way, 
With  strength  and  vigor  in  his  frame, 

And  left  me  to  come  after  him, 

When  he  should  earn  industrious  fame. 

"  One  year  roll'd  by  —  he  wrote  to  me 
Fresh  from  his  heart,  in  tender  joy, 

'  Lay  by  your  work  and  care,'  he  said, 
'And  come  to  meet  your  only  boy. 

"  '  I've  prospered  well  with  daily  toil, 

An  honest  living  now  is  mine; 
Come  live  with  me,  and  cheer  my  home, 

And  on  my  stronger  arm  recline.' 


24  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

"  I  came.     I  sought  my  blessed  child  — 
I  thought  my  earthly  wants  had  fled  ; 

I  came  —  O,  lady,  pity  me  ! 

My  son,  my  only  son,  was  dead. 

"And  very  lonely  is  this  place, 
Tho'  many  faces  crowd  around, 

A  little  pittance  I  would  ask, 

To  reach  my  native  burial-ground." 

At  that  she  paus'd.     O,  cold  the  heart 
That  could  refuse  that  simple  tone  ; 

I  watch'd  her  on  her  parting  road,  — 
New  faces  came,  —  and  she  was  gone. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1834. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  25 


MARY    ANNA    GIBBES, 

THE     YOUNG     HEROINE     OF     STONO,S.C.* 


STONO,  on  thy  still  banks 
The  roar  of  war  is  heard  ;  its  thunders  swell 
And  shake  yon  mansion,  where  domestic  love 
Till  now  breathed  simple  kindness  to  the  heart; 
Where  white-arm'd  childhood  twined  the  neck  of  age, 
Where  hospitable  cares  lit  up  the  hearth, 
Cheering  the  lonely  traveller  on  his  way. 

A  foe  inhabits  there,  —  and  they  depart, 
The  infirm  old  man,  and  his  fair  household  charge, 
Seeking  another  home.  —  Home  !  who  can  tell 
The  touching  power  of  that  most  sacred  word, 
Save  he,  who  feels  and  weeps  that  he  has  none  ? 

*  This  authentic  anecdote  is  related  by  Major  Garden.  It  is 
poetry  in  itself,  without  the  aid  of  measured  language,  but  it  is 
hoped  its  present  form  may  extend  the  knowledge  of  this  Carolina 
maiden  among  her  countrymen.  "  The  gallant  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Fenwick,  so  much  distinguished  for  his  services  in  the  war  of  1812, 
was  the  person  saved." 


26  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Among  that  group  of  midnight  exiles,  fled 
Young  Mary  Anna,  on  whose  youthful  cheek 
But  thirteen  years  had  kindled  up  the  rose. 
A  laughing  creature,  breathing  heart  and  love, 
Yet  timid  as  the  fawn  in  southern  wilds. 
E'en  the  night-reptile  on  the  dewy  grass 
Startled  the  maiden,  and  the  silent  stars, 
Looking  so  still  from  out  their  cloudy  home, 
Troubled  her  mind.     No  time  was  there  for  gauds 
And  toilette  art,  in  this  quick  flight  of  fear  ; 
Her  glossy  hair,  damp'd  by  the  midnight  winds, 
Lay  on  her  neck  dishevelled  ;  gathered  round 
Her  form  in  hurried  folds  clung  her  few  garments; 
Now  a  quick  thrilling  sob,  half  grief,  half  dread, 
Came  bursting  from  her  heart,  —  and  now  her  eyes 
Glar'd  forth,  as  peal'd  the  cannon  ;  then  beneath 
Their  drooping  lids,  sad  tears  redundant  flowed. 

But  sudden  mid  the  group  a  cry  arose, 
"  Fenwick  !  where  is  he  ?  "     None  returned  reply, 
But  a  sharp  piercing  glance  went  out,  around, 
Keen  as  a  mother's  towards  her  infant  child 
When  sudden  danger  lowers,  and  then  a  shriek 
From  one,  from  all  burst  forth  —  "  He  is  not  here  !  " 

Poor  boy,  he  slept !  nor  crash  of  hurrying  guns, 
Nor  impious  curses,  nor  the  warrior's  shout, 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  27 

Awoke  his  balmy  rest  !     He  dreamt  such  dreams 
As  float  round  childhood's  couch,  of  angel  faces 
Peering  through  clouds  ;  — of  sunny  rivulets, 
Where  the  fresh  stream  flows  rippling  on,  to  waft 
A  tiny  sail ;  —  and  of  his  rabbits  white, 
With  eyes  of  ruby,  and  his  tender  fawn's 
Long  delicate  limbs,  light  tread,  and  graceful  neck. 
He  slept  unconscious.  —  Who  shall  wake  that  sleep? 
All  shrink,  for  now  th'  artillery  louder  roars  ;  — 
The  frightened  slaves  crouch  at  their  master's  side, 
And  he,  infirm  and  feeble,  scarce  sustains 
His  sinking  weight. 

There  was  a  pause,  a  hush 
So  deep,  that  one  could  hear  the  forest  leaves 
Flutter  and  drop  between  the  war-gun's  peal. 
Then  forward  stood  that  girl,  young  Mary  Anna, 
The  tear  dried  up  upon  her  cheek,  the  sob 
Crushed  down,  and  in  that  high  and  lofty  tone 
Which  sometimes  breathes  of  woman  in  the  child, 
She  said,  "He  shall  not  die," —  and  turned  alone. 

Alone?  O  gentle  girlhood,  not  alone 
Art  thou,  if  ONE  watching  above  will  guard 
Thee  on  thy  way. 

Clouds  shrouded  up  the  stars  ;  — 
On  —  on  she  sped,  the  gun's  broad  glare  her  beacon  ! 


28  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  wolf-growl  sounded  near,  —  on  — onward  still : 
The  forest  trees  like  warning  spirits  moaned,  — 
She  pressed  her  hands  against  her  throbbing  heart, 
But  faltered  not.     The  whizzing  shot  went  by, 
Scarce  heeded  went.  —  Pass'd  is  a  weary  mile 
With  the  light  step  a  master-spirit  gives 
On  duty's  road,  and  she  has  reached  her  home. 
Her  home  —  is  this  her  home,  at  whose  fair  gate 
Stern  foes  in  silence  stand  to  bar  her  way  ? 
That  gate,  which  from  her  infant  childhood  leap'd 
On  its  wide  hinges,  glad  at  her  return  ? 
Before  the  sentinels  she  trembling  stood, 
And  with  a  voice,  whose  low  and  tender  tones 
Rose  like  the  ring-dove's  in  midsummer  storms, 
She  said, 

"Please  let  me  pass,  and  seek  a  child, 
Who  in  my  father's  mansion  has  been  left 
Sleeping,  unconscious  of  the  danger  near." 

While  thus  she  spake,  a  smile  incredulous 
Stole  o'er  the  face  of  one,  —  the  other  cursed 
And  barr'd  her  from  the  way. 

"  O,  sirs,"  she  cried, 

While  from  her  upraised  eyes  the  tears  stream'd  down, 
And  her  small  hands  were  clasp'd  in  agony, 
"  Drive  me  not  hence,  I  pray.     Until  to-night 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  29 

I  dared  not  stray  beyond  my  nurse's  side 

In  the  dim  twilight ;  yet  I  now  have  come 

Alone,  unguarded,  this  far  dreary  mile, 

By  darkness  unappall'd  ;  —  a  simple  worm 

Would  often  fright  my  heart,  and  bid  it  flutter, 

But  now  I've  heard  the  wild  wolf's  hungry  howl 

With  soul  undaunted  —  till  to-night,  I've  shrunk 

From  men  ;  —  and  soldiers  !  scarcely  dared  I  look 

Upon  their  glittering  arms  ;  —  but  here  I  come 

And  sue  to  you,  men,  warriors;  —  drive  me  not 

Away.     He  whom  I  seek  is  yet  a  child, 

A  prattling  boy,  —  and  must  he,  must  he  die  ? 

O,  if  you  love  your  children,  let  me  pass. — 

You  will  not?     Then  my  strength  and  hope  are  gone, 

And  I  shall  perish,  ere  I  reach  my  friends." 

And  then  she  press'd  her  brow,  as  if  those  hands, 
So  soft  and  small,  could  still  its  throbbing  pulse. 
The  sentinels  looked  calmly  on,  like  men 
Whose  blades  had  toyed  with  sorrow,  and  made  sport 
Of  woe.     One  step  the  maiden  backward  took, 
Lingering  in  thought,  then  hope  like  a  soft  flush 
Of  struggling  twilight  kindled  in  her  eyes. 
She  knelt  before  them  and  re-urged  her  plea. 

"  Perchance  you  have  a  sister,  sir,  or  you, 


30  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

A  poor  young  thing  like  me ;  if  she  were  here 
Kneeling  like  me  before  my  countrymen, 
They  would  not  spurn  her  thus  !  " 

"  Go,  girl  —  pass  on  "  — 
The  soften'd  voice  of  one  replied,  nor  was 
She  check'd,  nor  waited  she  to  hear  repulse, 
But  darted  through  the  avenue,  attained 
The  hall,  and  springing  up  the  well  known  stairs, 
With  such  a  flight  as  the  young  eagle  takes 
To  gain  its  nest,  she  reached  the  quiet  couch, 
Where  in  bright  dreams  th'  unconscious  sleeper  lay. 
Slight  covering  o'er  the  rescued  boy  she  threw, 
And  caught  him  in  her  arms.     He  knew  that  cheek, 
Kiss'd  it  half-waking,  then  around  her  neck 
His  hands  entwined,  and  dropp'd  to  sleep  again. 
She  bore  him  onward,  dreading  now  for  him 
The  shot  that  whizz'd  along,  and  tore  the  earth 
In  fragments  by  her  side.     She  reached  the  guards, 
Who  silent  oped  the  gate, —  then  hurried  on, 
But  as  she  pass'd  them,  from  her  heart  burst  forth  — 
"  God  bless  you,  gentlemen  !  "  then  urged  her  way  ; 
Those  arms,  whose  heaviest  load  and  task  had  been 
To  poise  her  doll,  and  wield  her  childhood's  toys, 
Bearing  the  boy  along  the  dangerous  road. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  31 

Voices  at  length  she  hears  —  her  friends  are  near, 
They  meet,  and  yielding  up  her  precious  charge, 
She  sinks  upon  her  father's  breast,  in  doubt 
'Tvvixt  smiles  and  tears. 

1837. 


32  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


THE    MONARCH    AT    PRAYER. 

'  George  the  Third  knelt  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  daughter, 
the  Princess  Amelia,  and  prayed." 


PROUD  Windsor's  towers  lay  bathed  in  light, 

And  Nature  look'd  and  srail'd 
On  that  rich  work  of  human  art, 

As  on  her  own  fair  child. 

The  birds  sent  up  their  piping  notes, 

Or  cut  the  yielding  sky  ; 
The  garden'd  plains  and  wooded  hills 

Look'd  gladsome  to  the  eye. 

• 

But  sorrow  deep  and  darkly  fell 

Beneath  those  lordly  walls, 
And  wailings  hush'd,  but  sorrowful, 

Were  whisper'd  through  the  halls. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  33 

Ah,  what  avails  it,  that  yon  couch 

And  canopy  are  hung, 
With  trappings  of  more  brilliant  hue, 

Than  ancient  poets  sung  ? 

She  cares  not  for  exotic  flowers, 

Nor  fruits  that  clustering  swell, 
Nor  all  the  pomp  and  gorgeousness 

That  luxury  scarce  may  tell. 

Forbear  to  tempt  her  faded  lip, 

With  costly  viands  now  ; 
Forbear  to  place  the  scented  wreath, 

Above  that  marble  brow. 

Ye  need  not  tread  with  feathery  step, 

Her  velvet  cover'd  floor  ; 
Nor  guard  with  silent  sentinels, 

The  nicely  balanc'd  door  : 

• 

She  heeds  not  now  the  sounds  of  earth, 

More  than  the  autumn  flower 
Heeds  the  wild  winds,  that  pass,  and  strew 

Its  leaves  within  her  bovver. 
3 


34  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Yet  hush  — tread  light  —  a  sound  goes  up, 
And  o'er  the  heart-pulse  rings  ! 

A  Monarch  by  his  dying  child 
Prays  to  the  King  of  Kings. 

It  is  a  si'Tht  most  beautiful 

O 

For  earthly  pride,  to  see 
The  faith  that  lights  her  dying  brow, 
And  shines  so  gloriously. 

The  Monarch  clasps  her  blue-vein'd  hands, 

With  gentle  pressure  given  ; 
His  filling  eyes  are  fixed  on  hers, 

And  hers  are  rais'd  to  Heaven. 

Seek  thou  the  Sovereign  on  his  throne, 

The  Conqueror  in  his  power, 
The  Statesman,  organ  of  a  world, 

In  his  successful  hour; 

• 

But  cold,  O  !  cold  the  picture  seems, 

Of  light  and  grace  beguil'd, 
When  on  the  Monarch's  form  I  gaze, 

Kneeling  beside  his  child. 

1834. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES. 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    LOVE    SONG. 


'Tis  fifty  years,  my  Edith, 
And  more,  since  we  were  one, 

And  many  a  man,  and  many  a  babe, 
Their  mortal  course  have  run. 

Thou  fanciest  that  thine  eye  is  dim, 
And  that  thy  locks  are  gray, 

O  !  Edith,  dear  are  they  to  me, 
As  on  our  wedding  day  ! 

Thou  wert  proud  of  me,  my  Edith, 
When  first  I  sought  thy  side, 

And  I  believ'd  that  naught  on  earth, 
Was  worthy  of  my  bride. 

Thou  hast  been  true  and  tender, 
In  the  sunny  hours  of  life, 

In  sickness  and  in  sorrow  too, 
A  kind  and  faithful  wife. 


f36  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Our  children's  children  circle 

Around  our  aged  knee, 
And  God  has  blest  us  still  with  sight 

Their  little  ones  to  see. 

Their  silken  hands,  endearingly 
My  trembling  fingers  press, 

But  not  less  dear,  my  Edith,  is 
Thy  matronly  caress. 

The  world  has  dealt  full  kindly, 
As  we've  trod  our  earthly  way, 

And  many  blessings  from  above, 
Have  crown'd  each  passing  day. 

And  death  has  seem'd  to  linger, 

As  loth  to  bid  us  part, 
Because  we  have,  thro'  weal  and  woe, 

Kept  ever  but  one  heart. 

O,  well  we  know,  my  Edith, 

Who  has  spar'd  us  on  the  road; 

And  night  and  morn  our  thoughts  as  one 
Have  risen  to  our  God. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  37 

Yes,  on  the  private  altar, 

We've  laid  our  humble  prayer, 
And  hand  in  hand  have  sought  His  courts, 

To  pay  our  worship  there. 

But  the  term  of  life  is  ending, 

For  eighty  years  have  past, 
Since  you  and  I  in  infancy, 

Upon  the  world  were  cast. 

One  prayer  to  God  we  offer, 

As  life  draws  near  its  close, 
That  we  may  still  together  rest, 

And  in  one  grave  repose,  — 

That  when  his  awful  summons 

Shall  call  us  to  the  sky, 
Still  undivided  to  his  throne, 

Our  faithful  souls  may  fly. 

1832. 


38  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


ROSALIE. 


'Tis  fearful  to  watch  by  a  dyingtfriend, 

Though  luxury  glistens  nigh  ; 
Though  the  pillow  of  down  be  softly  spread 

Where  the  throbbing  temples  lie  ;  — 

Though  the  loom's  pure  fabric  enfold  the  form, 
Though  the  shadowy  curtains  flow, 

Though  the  feet  on  sumptuous  carpets  tread 
As  "  lightly  as  snow  on  snow;  " 

Though  the  perfum'd  air  as  a  garden  teems 

With  flowers  of  healthy  bloom, 
And  the  feathery  fan  just  stirs  the  breeze 

In  the  cool  and  guarded  room ; 

Though  the  costly  cup  for  the  fever'd  lip 

With  grateful  cordial  flows, 
While  the  watching  eye  and  the  warning  hand 

Preserve  the  snatch'd  repose. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  31» 

Yes,  even  with  these  appliances 

From  wealth's  unmeasured  store, 
JT  is  fearful  to  watch  the  spirit's  flight 

To  its  dim  and  distant  shore. 

But  O,  when  the  form  that  we  love  is  laid 

On  Poverty's  chilly  bed, 
When  roughly  the  blast  to  the  shivering  limbs 

Through  crevice  and  pane  is  sped ; 

When  the  noon-dav  sun  comes  streamincr  in 

./  o 

On  the  dim  or  burning  eye, 
And  the  heartless  laugh  and  the  worldly  tread 
Is  heard  from  the  passers  by  ; 

When  the  sickly  lip  for  a  pleasant  draught 

To  us  in  vain  upturns, 
And  the  aching  head  on  a  pillow  hard 

In  restless  fever  burns  ; 

When  night  rolls  on,  and  we  gaze  in  woe 

On  the  candle's  lessening  ray, 
And  grope  about  in  the  midnight  gloom, 

And  long  for  the  breaking  day ; 


40  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Or  bless  the  moon  as  her  silver  torch 

Sheds  light  on  our  doubtful  hand, 
When  pouring  the  drug  which  a  moment  wrests 

The  soul  from  the  spirit-land  ; 

When  we  know  that  sickness  of  soul  and  heart 

Which  sensitive  bosoms  feel  — 
When  helpless,  hopeless,  we  needs  must  gaze 

On  woes  we  cannot  heal,  — 

This,  this  is  the  crown  of  bitterness ; 

And  we  pray  as  the  lov'd  one  dies 
That  our  breath  may  pass  with  their  waning  pulse, 

And  with  theirs  close  our  aching  eyes. 

My  story  tells  of  sweet  Rosalie, 
Once  a  maiden  of  joy  and  delight, 

A  ray  of  love  from  her  girlish  days, 
To  her  parents'  devoted  sight. 

The  girl  was  free  as  the  river  wave 

That  dances  to  ocean's  rest ; 
And  life  look'd  down  like  a  summer's  sun 

On  her  pure  and  gentle  breast. 


AND    OTI1EU    SKETCHES.  41 

She  saw  young  Arthur  —  their  happy  hearts 

Like  two  young  streamlets  shone, 
That  leap  along  on  their  mountain  path, 

Then  mingle  their  waters  as  one. 

They  parted  ;  —  he  roved  to  western  wilds 

To  seek  for  his  bird  a  nest  ; 
And  Rosalie  dwelt  in  her  father's  halls, 

And  folded  her  wings  to  rest. 

But  her  father  died,  and  a  fearful  blight 
O'er  his  child  and  his  widow  fell  — 

They  sunk  from  that  day  in  the  gloomy  abyss 
Where  sorrow  and  poverty  dwell. 

Consumption  came,  and  he  whisper'd  low 

To  the  widow  of  early  death  ; 
He  hasten'd  the  beat  of  her  constant  pulse, 

And  baffled  the  coming  breath. 

He  prey'd  on  the  bloom  of  her  still  soft  cheek, 

And  shrivell'd  her  hand  of  snow ; 
He  check'd  her  step  in  its  easy  glide, 

And  her  eye  beamed  a  restless  glow. 


42  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

He  choked  her  voice  in  its  morning  song, 

And  stifled  its  evening  lay, 
And  husky  and  course  rose  her  midnight  hymn 

As  she  lay  on  her  pillow  to  pray. 

Poor  Rosalie  rose  by  the  dawning  light, 

And  sat  by  the  midnight  oil  ; 
But  the  pittance  was  fearfully  small  that  came 

By  her  morning  and  evening  toil. 

'T  was  then  in  her  lodging  the  night-wind  came 
Through  crevice  and  broken  pane, 

'T  was  there  that  the  early  sun-beam  burst 
With  its  glaring  and  burning  train. 

When  Rosalie  sat  by  her  mother's  side, 
She  smothered  her  heart's  affright, 

And  essay'd  to  smile,  though  the  monster  Want 
Stood  haggard  and  wan  in  her  sight. 

She  pressed  her  feet  on  the  cold  damp  floor, 
And  crushed  her  hands  on  her  heart, 

Or  stood  like  a  statue  so  still  and  pale, 
Lest  a  tear  or  a  cry  should  start. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  43 

Her  household  goods  went  one  by  one 

To  purchase  their  scanty  fare  ; 
And  even  the  little  mirror  was  sold 

Where  she  parted  her  glossy  hair. 

Then  hunger  glared  in  her  full  blue  eye, 
And  was  heard  in  her  tremulous  tone  ; 

And  she  long'd  for  the  crust  that  the  beggar  eats 
As  he  sits  by  the  way-side  stone. 

The  neighbors  gave  of  their  scanty  store, 

But  their  jealous  children  scowl'd; 
And  the  eager  dog  that  guarded  the  street, 

Look'd  on  the  morsel  and  howl'd. 


Then  her  mother  died  —  'twas  a  blessed 

For  the  last  faint  embers  had  gone 
On  the  chilly  hearth,  and  the  candle  was  out 

As  Rosalie  watch'd  for  the  dawn. 

'Twas  a  blessed  exchange  from  this  dark,  cold  earth 
To  those  bright  and  blossoming  bowers, 

Where  the  spirit  roves  in  its  robes  of  light, 
And  gathers  immortal  flowers  ! 


44  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Poor  Rosalie  lay  on  her  mother's  breast, 
Though  its  fluttering  breath  was  o'er  ; 

And  eagerly  press'd  her  passive  hand, 
Which  return'd  the  pressure  no  more. 

In  darkness  she  closed  the  fixing  eyes, 

And  saw  not  the  deathly  glare ; 
Then  straiten'd  the  warm  and  flaccid  limbs 

With  a  wild  and  fearful  care. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  the  morrow  broke 
On  the  night  that  her  mother  died, 

Poor  Rosalie  sank  from  her  long,  long  watch, 
In  sleep  by  her  mother's  side. 

5T  was  a  sorrowful  sight  for  the  neighbors  to  see, 
(When  they  woke  from  their  kindlier  rest,) 

The  beautiful  girl  with  her  innocent  face 
Asleep  on  the  corpse's  breast. 

Her  hair  flowed  about  by  her  mother's  side, 
And  her  hand  on  the  dead  hand  fell ; 

Yet  her  breathing  was  light  as  the  lily's  roll 
When  waved  by  the  ripple's  swell. 


AMD    OTHER    SKETCHES.  45 

There  was  surely  a  vision  of  heaven's  delight 

Haunting  her  exquisite  rest, 
For  she  smiled  in  her  sleep  such  a  heavenly  smile 

As  could  only  beam  out  from  the  blest. 

'T  was  fearful  as  beautiful ;  and  as  they  gazed, 
The  neighbors  stood  whispering  low, 

Nor  dared  they  remove  her  white  arm  from  the  dead, 
Where  it  seemed  in  its  fondness  to  grow. 

Life  is  not  always  a  darkling  dream, 

God  loves  our  sad  waking  to  bless, 
More  brightly,  perchance,  for  the  dreary  shade 

That  heralds  our  happiness. 

A  stranger  stands  by  that  humble  door, 

A  youth  in  the  flush  of  life, 
And  sudden  hope  in  his  thoughtful  glance 

Seems  with  sorrow  and  care  at  strife. 

Manly  beauty  and  soul-formed  grace 

Stand  forth  in  each  movement  fair, 
And  speak  in  the  turn  of  his  well-timed  step, 

And  shine  in  his  wavy  hair. 


46  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

With  travel  and  watchfulness  worn  was  he, 

Yet  there  beamed  on  his  open  brow 
Traces  of  faith  and  integrity, 

Where  conscience  had  stamped  her  vow. 

'Twas  Arthur  —  he  gazed  on  those  two  pale  forms, 
Soon  one  was  clasped  to  his  heart  — 

In  piercing  accents  he  called  her  name  — 
That  voice  bade  the  life-blood  start. 

Not  on  the  dead  doth  she  ope  her  eyes, 
Life,  love,  spread  their  living  wings  ; 

And  she  rests  on  her  lover's  breast  as  a  child 
To  its  nursing  mother  clings. 

A  pure  white  tomb  in  the  near  grave-yard 

Betokens  the  widow's  rest, 
But  Arthur  has  gone  to  his  forest  home, 

And  shelters  his  dove  in  his  nest. 

1837. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  47 


THE    MERCHANT'S    BRIDE 


A    BALLAD. 


PART    FIRST. 


BEFORE  the  priest  young  Julia  stood 
A  bright  and  buoyant  maid, 

Scarce  conscious  of  the  winning  charm 
Each  act  and  look  betrayed. 

Her  pure  white  robe,  with  graceful  fold, 

And  floating  veil  descend, 
While  costly  flowers  from  distant  climes 

With  costly  jewels  blend. 

Pearls  tremble  on  her  lovely  brow, 
And  clasp  her  swan-like  neck, 

And  glittering  diamonds,  rich  and  rare, 
Her  slender  fingers  deck. 


48  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  he  who  gave  this  lavish  store 

Gazes  upon  his  prize, 
Forgetful  of  the  diamond's  blaze 

While  looking  in  her  eyes. 

For  there,  confiding  tenderness 
And  maiden  sweetness  dwell, 

Blent  with  a  soft  unconsciousness, 
To  man  the  fondest  spell. 

And  freely  now  her  hand  in  his 

She  lays  —  a  wedded  wife, 
And  cheerfully  the  promise  gives 

To  be  his  own  for  life. 

Oh  sweetly  hath  he  deck'd  her  bower, 

And  gorgeously  her  halls ; 
Here  treads  her  foot  on  springing  buds, 

And  there  on  velvet  falls. 

The  massy  curtain's  graceful  flow, 
The  vase  —  the  painting  warm, 

Those  household  echoes  —  mirrors  bright, 
Revealing  her  light  form,  — 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  49 

Exotics  that  perfume  the  air 

With  odors  sweet  and  strange, 
And  shells  that  far  in  distant  climes 

Mid  ocean-wonders  range,  — 

With  countless  gifts  of  taste  and  art 

In  classic  beauty  rife, 
Are  laid  upon  affection's  shrine 

Before  that  youthful  wife. 

The  ocean  deep,  the  circling  air, 

The  earth  for  her  is  sought, 
And  ere  she  breathes  a  prayer  or  wish, 

Possession  follows  thought. 

Nor  scarcely  on  her  silken  cheek 

May  glance  the  summer  ray  ; 
And  costly  furs  enfold  her  form 

When  winter  holds  his  sway. 

Why  should  he  toil  at  early  morn, 

And  freight  the  frequent  sail, 
While  still,  unsated,  gathering  night 

Finds  him  with  vigil  pale? 
4 


50  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Alas  !  each  day  subtracts  some  tint 
From  home's  delicious  bloom. 

How  soon  neglect  destroys  that  plant 
Of  delicate  perfume  ! 

And  lonely  walks  she  in  her  bower, 

And  lonely  in  her  hall, 
And  thinks  one  day-caress  from  him 

Were  fairly  worth  them  all. 

She  pauses  at  the  mirror  now, 
Still  speaks  its  flattering  tone  — 

But  with  a  sigh  she  droops  her  head, 
And  feels  herself  alone. 

Her  fingers  on  the  ivory  keys 
Run  on  in  listless  play,  — 

"  What  care  I  for  the  foolish  song  ?  " 
She  asks,  and  turns  away. 

Yet  still  he  labors.  — When  within 
The  whirlpool  stream  of  gain, 

Man  strives  to  reach  the  table-land 
Of  calm  content  in  vain. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  ,}  1 

Amid  his  leger's  crowded  leaves 

Once  thought  he  but  of  her, 
Alas!  for  mammon  now  he  toils, 

His  hourly  worshipper. 

The  silent  meal  —  the  hurried  walk, 

The  news  conn'd  o'er  and  o'er, 
Betray  a  mind  that  beats  to  home's 

Fresh  sympathies  no  more. 

And  when  he  hears  the  fretful  word, 

Or  sees  the  struggling  tear, 
He  looks  around  his  rich  abode, 

And  asks,   "  What  want  is  here  ?  " 

Who  does  not  know  that  one  kind  tone 

Is  more  to  woman's  heart, 
Than  all  the  gauds  of  wealth  and  power, 

Mere  riches  can  impart  ? 

Yet  often  to  some  wild  abyss 

The  coursing  streamlet  tends, 
And  mid  the  rays  of  gorgeous  clouds 

The  lightning's  flash  descends. 


5:2  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

One  morn  the  Merchant  told  his  gains  — 

D 

In  conscious  wealth  he  trod  ; 
The  next  he  stood  a  beggar'd  man, 
Nor  own'd  his  burial  sod. 

Dizzy  he  turn'd,  and  as  a  ship, 

Its  guiding  rudder  lost, 
Drifts  on  the  sea,  so  wandered  he, 

By  rushing  eddies  tost. 

And  where  is  Julia,  where  the  flower 

So  delicately  bred, 
When  this  rough  storm  of  fortune's  gale 

Came  bursting  on  her  head? 

Strangers  were  seen  in  those  gay  halls, 

And  idle  loungers  there 
In  careless  wonder,  curious  gaz'd 

On  objects  loved  and  rare. 

The  auctioneer  rang  out  his  jest, 
The  hammer's  stroke  was  heard, 

And  laugh  on  laugh  went  grating  round 
As  fell  each  idle  word ; 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  53 

The  mirrors  which  had  multiplied 

So  oft  her  loveliness, 
The  vases  which  with  clustering  flowers 

Her  hands  had  joyed  to  dress,  — 

Books,  which  her  jewelled  fingers  turned 

With  gay  or  studious  eye, 
Sofas  where  oft  luxuriously 

Her  form  was  wont  to  lie,  — 

Sweet  monuments  of  taste  and  love 

All  broke  like  ocean's  foam  — 
She  turned  in  sorrow  from  the  spot 

To  seek  another  home. 


PART    SECOND. 


Who  sits  heside  yon  cozy  fire, 

A  babe  upon  her  knee  ? 
And  who  is  clasping  that  sweet  pair 

Fondly  and  cheerfully  ? 


54  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  space  is  small,  but  there  is  room 
For  Rover  at  their  feet, 

The  tea-urn  gives  its  hissing  sound, 
The  bread  is  white  and  sweet. 

Methinks  I've  seen  that  full  clear  eye 
Less  brilliant  in  its  beams, 

And  that  elastic,  graceful  step, 
Graver  than  now  it  seems. 

List  to  that  laugh  of  heartfelt  mirth, 
List  to  that  tender  word, 

And  see  the  frequent  chaste  caress 
From  sympathy  new-stirr'd  ! 

Oh,  Julia,  in  misfortune's  scale 
Thy  worth  has  well  been  tried, 

And  thou  art  happy,  for  thy  lord 
Is  happy  at  thy  side. 

Awakened  from  his  worldly  dream, 
Absorbing,  selfish,  vain, 

He  finds  the  path  to  happiness 
Lies  not  in  ceaseless  gain. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  55 

In  unaspiring  competence 

He  seeks  the  golden  mean, 
Contented  in  life's  calmer  fields 

His  needful  wants  to  glean. 

And  Julia  walks  in  dignity, 

A  heaven-relying  mind 
Enkindling  up  a  latent  power, 

Scarcely  before  defined. 

More  beautiful  the  Merchant's  bride 

Thus  school'd  to  self-control, 
Than  when  light  winds  of  pleasure  flew 

Across  her  passive  soul. 

O  who  shall  call  adversity 

A  dark  and  cheerless  night, 
When  on  her  brow  such  stars  appear 

Of  calm  and  lovely  light  ? 

1837. 


56 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


THE    GAMESTER. 


TIIEV  came  before  the  altar  in  their  love, 
"And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful." 
He  stood  in  strength,  and  she  in  trustingness. 
The  dark  curls,  flung  from  off  his  open  brow, 
Revealed  its  Jove-like  fullness,  while  her  hair 
With  free  and  floating  tresses,  veil'd  the  cheek 
That  blush'd  and  paled  in  beautiful  surprise, 
As  the  strong  waves  of  hope  and  memory, 
With  struggling  current,  mov'd  her  depth  of  heart. 
Firm  was  his  step,  like  one  whose  soul  is  nerv'd 
For  combat  with  the  world  ;  a  rock  for  life's 
Rough  waves  to  dash  on  ;  while  her  airy  tread 
"Scarce  from  the  heath-flower  dash'd  the  morning  dew/' 

They  sought  their  fair  and  solitary  home;  — 
Fit  residence  !     The  silent  trees  stood  round, 
Nor  mock'd  young  love's  first  tenderness.  Spring  flowers 
Look'd  up  and  smil'd ;  and  happy  birds  trill'd  out 
The  epithalamium  chaunt.     It  was  the  heart's 
Fresh  holiday. 


AXD    OTHER    SKETCHES.  57 

A  rolling  year  went  by, 

"  When  on  their  eyes  a  new  existence  smil'd," 
And  Agnes  clasp'd  a  babe,  a  living  boy, 
To  her  young  throbbing  breast,  and  Winton  press'd 
His  lips,  with  thoughts  that  man  but  once  can  know, 
Upon  his  first-born's  brow.     O  was  not  this 
Earth's  Paradise?     Alas,  that  in  its  path 
A  serpent  should  arise  with  specious  wile  ! 

A  change  come  o'er  that  scene  of  quiet  bliss, 
And  Agnes'  soft  caress  arid  the  boy's  smile 
Fell  cold  on  Winton's  heart ;  he  stray'd  from  home  ; 
His  brow  grew  pale,  abstracted,  and  dark  words 
Broke  muttering  through  his  sleep.     Rumor  awoke 
Whispering  of  guilty  haunts,  and  rumor  grew 
To  dreadful  certainty. 

One  night,  among 

The  reckless  band  that  seek  the  gamester's  hall, 
Frantic,  young  Winton  stood,  a  ruin'd  man. 
With  staggering  step,  clench'd  hands  and  fiery  eyes 
He  wildly  raved  ;  then,  crush'd  and  impotent, 
As  thoughts  of  home  and  Agnes  cross'd  his  rnind, 
Lean'd  his  hot,  aching  brow,  upon  his  hand. 
Ha  !  is  it  so?     A  mirror  to  his  eye 
Discloses  signs  and  looks,  from  one  in  view, 
That  speak  of  fraud  and  trickery  !     Winton  sprang, 


58  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  with  a  bound  fierce  as  a  tiger's  leap, 
Levell'd  a  blow  with  word  opprobrious. 

The  morning  light  rose  coldly  on  his  eyes  ! 
That  eve  must  stamp  him  murderer,  or  must  lay 
His  senseless  form  within  a  hurried  grave. 
He  call'd  on  one  who  long  had  lov'd  arid  warn'd, 
(Alas,  how  fruitlessly  he  lov'd  and  warn'd!) 
To  aid  him  in  the  coming  scene  of  blood. 
The  good  physician  went.     Strange  courtesies 
Pass'd  round ;  the  studied  bow,  the  measur'd  step, 
And  gravely  busy  air.     Upon  a  mound 
He  sat,  and  mark'd  the  scene.     There  was  the  sky- 
Expanding  its  wide  arms  in  love ;  the  trees 
Were  whispering  kindness  ;   blossoms  smilingly 
Turn'd  their  soft  leaves  upon  the  passing  breeze, 
Which  kiss'd  them  as  it  rov'd  ;  —  all,  ull  but  man 
In  harmony  with  heaven. 

His  heart  was  touch'd  ; 

Thought  with  its  busy  tide  came  deep  and  strong ; 
Earth  seem'd  a  speck,  — eternity  was  all ; 
And  on  that  mound  arose  his  solemn  vow, 
That  never,  while  the  life-blood  fill'd  his  veins, 
And  reason  kept  her  throne,  would  he  by  thought, 
Or  word,  or  deed,  or  presence,  sanction  give 
To  the  duello's  dark  and  murderous  rite. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  59 

Fierce  was  the  cry  for  blood ;  the  signal  pass'd  ; 
Life  gush'd,  and  Winton  was  a  murderer. 

Rapid  his  fate ;  the  stone  that  from  the  height 
Of  some  far  mountain  dashes  to  the  earth, 
Falls  not  more  certainly  than  he,  who  seeks 
The  downward  progress  of  the  gamester's  way. 
***** 

Whose  is  that  spectral  form,  that  by  the  light 
Of  new-born  day  seeks  the  cold  casement's  air, 
And  strains  her  sight  with  yet  a  lingering  hope 
Her  lov'd  one  may  return?     For  he  is  lov'd, 
As  woman  still  will  love  through  slight  and  shame. 
'T  is  Agnes,  sad  and  chill  ;  the  bright  rose  gone 
That  deck'd  her  cheek  ;  the  elastic  step  subdued, 
Her  soft  eye  dim  with  tears,  that  fall  in  showers 
Upon  her  sleeping  boy. 

He  comes,  but  how  ? 

The  intended  victim  of  self-murder.     Pale 
And  weak  he  lies,  by  menial  arms  upborne, 
And  Agnes  kneels  beside  him,  bathes  his  brow 
With  her  soft  hands,  calls  fondly  on  his  name 
In  tones  as  soft  as  when,  a  blushing  girl, 
She  dared  to  breathe  it  only  to  the  winds. 
She,  the  high-born,  the  beautiful,  the  good, 
For  him  prays  fondly.     She  is  heard.     He  lives. 


60  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Lives?     What  is  life?     Is  it  to  breathe  earth's  air, 
To  tread  its  soil,  to  eat,  to  drink,  to  sleep  ? 
This  is  not  life.     The  man  that  knows  but  this, 
Had  better  sink  in  dust,  in  dark  oblivion. 
He  only  lives  whose  soul  is  blent  with  heaven, 
Like  dew  that  falls  at  night  to  rise  at  morn. 

The  Gamester  liv'd ;  reviv'd,  on  Agnes'  brow 
To  stamp  deep  furrows ;  sear  her  gentle  heart 
With  unheal'd  wounds,  and  fill  his  cup  of  sin 
With  the  deep  scandal  of  a  felon's  crime. 

He  died  —  a  hiss  of  scorn  and  infamy 
Went  up  upon  his  grave,  his  boy  unlearn'd 
The  name  of  father,  and  his  drooping  wife, 
With  downcast  eyes,  went  sorrowing  to  the  tomb. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  61 


A    BALLAD. 


PART     FIRST. 
THE      PLANTATION. 

FAREWELL,  awhile,  the  city's  hum, 

Where  busy  footsteps  fall, 
And  welcome  to  my  weary  eye, 

The  Planter's  friendly  Hall. 

Here  let  me  rise  at  early  dawn, 
And  list  the  mock-bird's  lay, 

That  warbling  near  our  lowland  home, 
Sits  on  the  waving  spray. 

Then  tread  the  shading  avenue, 
Beneath  the  cedar's  gloom, 

Or  gum  tree  with  its  flicker'd  shade, 
Or  chinquapen's  perfume. 


62  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  myrtle  tree,  the  orange  wild, 
The  cypress'  flexile  bough, 

The  holly  with  its  polished  leaves, 
Are  all  before  me  now. 

There,  towering  with  imperial  pride, 
The  rich  magnolia  stands, 

And  here,  in  softer  loveliness, 
The  white  bloom'd  bay  expands. 

The  long  gray  moss  hangs  gracefully, 

Idly  I  twine  its  wreaths, 
Or  stop  to  catch  the  fragrant  air, 

The  frequent  blossom  breathes. 

Life  wakes  around  —  the  red  bird  darts 
Like  flame  from  tree  to  tree  ; 

The  whip-poor-will  complains  alone, 
The  robin  whistles  free. 

The  frighten'd  hare  scuds  by  my  path, 
And  seeks  the  thicket  nigh  ; 

The  squirrel  climbs  the  hickory  bough, 
Thence  peeps  with  careful  eye. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  63 

The  humming-bird  with  busy  wing 

In  rainbow  beauty  moves, 
Above  the  trumpet-blossom  floats, 

And  sips  the  tube  he  loves. 

Triumphant  to  yon  wither'd  pine, 

The  soaring  eagle  flies, 
There  builds  her  eyrie  mid  the  clouds, 

And  man  and  heaven  defies. 

The  hunter's  bugle  echoes  near, 

And  see,  his  weary  train 
With  mingled  bowlings  scent  the  woods, 

Or  scour  the  open  plain. 

Yon  skiff  is  darting  from  the  cove, 

And  list  the  negro's  song, 
The  theme,  his  owner  and  his  boat, 

While  glide  the  crew  along. 

And  when  the  leading  voice  is  lost, 

Receding  from  the  shore, 
His  brother  boatmen  swell  the  strain, 

In  chorus  with  the  oar. 


64  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

There  stands  the  dairy  on  the  stream, 
Within  the  broad  oak's  shade, 

The  white  pails  glitter  in  the  sun, 
In  rustic  pomp  array'd. 

And  she  stands  smiling  at  the  door, 
Who  "  minds"  that  milky  way, 

She  smoothes  her  apron  as  I  pass, 
And  loves  the  praise  I  pay. 

Welcome  to  me  her  sable  hands, 
When,  in  the  noontide  heat, 

Within  the  polish'd  calibash, 
She  pours  the  pearly  treat. 

The  poulterer's  feather'd,  tender  charge, 

Feed  on  the  grassy  plain  ; 
Her  Afric  brow  lights  up  with  smiles, 

Proud  of  her  noisy  train. 

Nor  does  the  herdman  view  his  flock, 

With  unadmiring  gaze, 
Significant  are  all  their  names, 

Won  by  their  varying  ways. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES. 

Forth  from  the  negroes'  humble  huts 
The  laborers  now  have  gone ; 

But  some  remain,  diseas'd  and  old  — 
Do  they  repine  alone? 

Ah,  no.     The  nurse,  with  practis'd  skill, 
That  sometimes  shames  the  wise, 

Prepares  the  herb  of  potent  power, 
And  healing  aid  applies. 

On  sunny  banks  the  children  play, 

Or  wind  the  fisher's  line, 
Or,  with  the  dext'rous  fancy-braid, 

The  willow  baskets  twine. 

Long  ere  the  sloping  sun  departs, 

The  laborers  quit  the  field, 
And  hous'd  within  their  sheltering  huts, 

To  careless  quiet  yield. 

But  see  yon  wild  and  lurid  clouds, 
That  rush  in  contact  strong, 

And  hear  the  thunder,  peal  on  peal, 
Reverberate  along. 
5 


66  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  cattle  stand  and  mutely  gaze, 
The  birds  instinctive  fly, 

While  forked  flashes  rend  the  air, 
And  light  the  troubled  sky. 

Behold  yon  sturdy  forest  pine, 

Whose  green  top  points  to  heaven. 

A  flash  !  its  firm,  encasing  bark, 
By  that  red  shock  is  riven. 

But  we,  the  children  of  the  South, 
Shrink  not  with  trembling  fears  ; 

The  storm  familiar  to  our  youth, 
Will  spare  our  ripen'd  years. 

We  know  its  fresh,  reviving  charm, 
And,  like  the  flower  and  bird, 

Our  looks  and  voices,  in  each  pause, 
With  grateful  joy  are  stirr'd. 

And  now  the  tender  rice  upshoots, 
Fresh  in  its  hue  of  green, 

Spreading  its  emerald  carpet  far, 
Beneath  the  sunny  sheen  ; 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  67 

Tho'  when  the  softer  ripen'd  hue 

Of  autumn's  changes  rise, 
The  rustling  spires  instinctive  lift 

Their  gold  seeds  to  the  skies. 

There  the  young  cotton  plant  unfolds 

Its  leaves  of  sickly  hue, 
But  soon  advancing  to  its  growth, 

Looks  up  with  beauty  too. 

And,  as  midsummer  suns  prevail, 

Upon  its  blossoms,  glow 
Commingling  hues,  like  sunset  rays  — 

Then  bursts  its  sheeted  snow. 

How  shall  we  fly  this  lovely  spot, 

Where  rural  joys  prevail, 
The  social  board,  the  eager  chase, 

Gay  dance  and  merry  tale  ? 

Alas!  our  youth  must  leave  their  sports, 

When  spring-time  ushers  May  ; 
Our  maidens  quit  the  planted  flower, 

Just  blushing  into  day. 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Or,  all  beneath  yon  rural  mound, 
Where  rest  th'  ancestral  dead, 

By  mourning  friends,  with  sever'd  hearts, 
Unconscious  will  be  led. 

O,  Southern  summer,  false  and  fair  ! 

Why,  from  thy  loaded  wing, 
Blent  with  rich  flowers  and  fruitage  rare, 

The  seeds  of  sorrow  fling? 


PART    SECOND. 

THE  OVERSEER'S  CHILDREN. 

Three  fleeting  years  have  come  and  gone, 

Since  Ann  Pomroy  I  met, 
Returning  from  the  district  school, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  was  set. 

With  her,  her  brother  Francis  stray'd, 

And,  both  in  merry  tone, 
Were  saying  all  the  rambling  things, 

Youth  loves  when  tasks  are  done. 


AND    OTHEIl    SKETCHES. 

The  mountain  tinge  was  on  their  cheeks  ; 

From  far  Vermont  they  came, 
For  wandering  habits  led  their  sire 

A  southern  home  to  claim. 

Fresh  with  the  airy  spring  of  youth, 
They  tripp'd  the  woods  along, 

Now  darting  off  to  cull  a  flower, 
Now  bursting  into  song. 

O,  Ann  Pomroy,  thy  sparkling  eye 

Methinks  I  often  see, 
When  some  young  face,  in  loveliness, 

Beams  up  in  smiles  to  me. 

And  when  light  sounds  of  boyish  mirth 
Laugh  out  uncheck'd  by  fear, 

It  seems  to  me,  that  Francis'  voice 
Is  floating  on  my  ear. 

I  said  the  hue  of  health  they  bore,  — 

Her's  was  the  nect'rine  fair, 
And  his  the  deep  pomegranate  tinge, 

That  boys  of  beauty  wear. 


TO  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

They  walk'd  at  early  morn  and  eve, 

And  as  I  yearly  paid 
My  visit  to  the  Planter's  Hall, 

I  saw  the  youth  and  maid. 

At  first,  by  simple  accident, 

I  came  upon  their  walk ; 
But  soon  I  lov'd  to  pause  and  seek 

The  privilege  of  talk  — 

Until  my  steps  were  daily  turn'd, 

But  how  I  scarce  can  say, 
When  Ann  and  Francis  came  from  school, 

To  meet  them  on  the  way. 

They  told  me  of  New-England  hills, 

Of  orchards  in  the  sun, 
Of  sleigh-rides  with  the  merry  bells, 

Of  skating's  stirring  fun  ; 

And  sometimes  of  a  grave  they  spake, 
And  then  would  sadder  grow, 

In  which  a  gentle  mother  slept, 
Beneath  the  wintry  snow. 

*  *  *  * 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  71 

When  April's  changing  face  was  seen, 

Again  from  town  I  flew, 
To  where  the  sleep  of  nature  wakes 

To  sights  and  odors  new. 

All  things  were  fair  —  the  plants  of  earth 

Look'd  upward  to  the  sky, 
And  the  blue  heaven  o'erarch'd  them  still 

With  clear  and  glittering  eye. 

I  sought  the  walk  I  us'd  to  seek, 

And  took  the  little  store 
Of  toys,  that  from  the  city's  mart 

For  Ann  and  Frank  I  bore. 

A  rustling  in  the  leaves  I  heard, 

But  Francis  only  came, 
His  eye  was  dim,  his  cheek  was  pale, 

And  agues  shook  his  frame. 

He  saw  me  —  to  my  open  arms 

With  sudden  gladness  sprang; 
Then  raised  a  thrilling  cry  of  grief 

With  which  the  forest  rang. 


72  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Few  words  he  spake,  but  led  me  on 
To  where  a  grave-like  mound, 

With  young  spring  plants  and  evergreens, 
In  rural  taste  was  crown'd. 

And  there  he  stood,  while  gushing  tears 
Like  summer  rain-drops  came, 

And  heavings,  as  a  troubled  sea, 
Went  o'er  his  blighted  frame. 

I  did  not  ask  him  who  was  there, 

I  felt  that  Ann  was  gone, 
Around  his  drooping  neck  I  hung, 

And  stood  like  him  forlorn. 
*  *  *  * 

"  I  soon  shall  die,"  the  mourner  said, 

"  Here  will  they  make  my  grave, 
And  over  me  the  cedar  trees 

And  moaning  pines  will  wave. 

"  None  —  then  will  come  to  tend  the  flowers, 

That  blossom  o'er  her  bed  ; 
None  sing  for  her  the  twilight  dirge 

When  I  am  with  the  dead. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  73 

"  I  cannot  join  the  school-boy  sports, 

My  head  and  heart  are  sad  ; 
When  Ann  is  in  the  silent  grave, 

O,  how  can  I  be  glad  ? 

"And  when  I  say  my  studied  tasks, 
Or  gained  the  once  loved  prize, 

I  weep  and  softly  pray  to  Heaven, 
To  lay  me  where  she  lies." 

I  kissed  his  pale  and  suffering  brow, 
By  early  sorrows  riven  ; 
I  talk'd  to  him  of  her  he  lov'd, 

And  raised  his  thoughts  to  Heaven. 

And  when  the  call  of  duty  came, 

To  take  me  from  his  side, 
He  told  me  with  a  sickly  smile, 

"  'T  was  best  that  Ann  had  died." 

Another  annual  season  roll'd 

Its  cares  and  joys  along  — 
Again  I  sought  the  country's  charms, 

Deep  woods,  and  caroll'd  song. 


74  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  there  I  found  two  silent  graves, 

Amid  the  vernal  bloom  — 
I  ne'er  shall  see  those  forms  again, 

Till  Heaven  unseals  the  tomb. 

O,  Southern  summer,  false  and  fair, 

Why,  on  thy  loaded  wing, 
Blent  with  rich  flowers  and  fruitage  rare, 

The  seeds  of  sorrow  bring  ? 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  75 


A   NEW-ENGLAND   BALLAD. 


[An  incident,  as  early  in  the  settlement  of  New-England  as  1630, 
has  been  faithfully  followed  in  the  subjoined  verses,  which  are 
written  with  the  hope  of  drawing  the  attention  of  juvenile  read 
ers  to  that  interesting  era  in  our  national  history.] 

A  BOAT  was  bound  from  Shawmut*  Bay 

To  Plymouth's  stormy  shore, 
And  on  her  rough  and  fragile  hull 

Five  daring  men  she  bore. 

With  them  would  Mary  Guerard  go 

In  cold  December's  time, 
Though  delicate  and  gently  bred, 

For  such  a  rugged  clime. 

"Dear  father,  do  not  part  from  me," 

Entreatirigly  she  cried, 
"  But  when  you  seek  the  troubled  sea, 

Retain  me  by  your  side. 

*  Boston. 


76  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

"  My  youthful  spirits  mount  in  joy 

Upon  my  bosom's  throne, 
And  I  can  brave  the  storms  with  you, 

But  I  shall  weep  alone." 

They  launch  their  shallop  on  the  bay, 

And  give  her  to  the  breeze, 
While  Mary  cheers  her  father's  heart 

Upon  the  sparkling  seas. 

How  sweetly  on  that  savage  coast 

Her  maiden  laughter  rung  ! 
How  doatingly  on  that  fair  face 

The  busy  oars-men  hung  ! 

But  tempests  rose,  and  mid  the  rocks 
Their  leaky  boat  was  thrown  ; 

A  bed  of  ice  form'd  under  them  — 
Their  ocean  path  unknown.     • 

Those  five  stout  hearts  with  chasten'd  looks 

Await  their  mournful  doom, 
And  Mary,  Shawmut's  gentle  flower, 

Expects  a  frozen  tomb. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  77 

And  now  that  group  of  pilgrim  souls 

"  Dispose  themselves  to  die;  "  * 
How  bless'd  were  they  in  that  dread  hour 

To  put  their  trust  on  high. 

But  near  a  lone  and  surgy  cape,  t 

Land!  land  !   an  oarsman  spied  — 
With  effort  strong  they  clear  the  skiff, 

And  catch  the  favoring  tide  ; 

And  hoisting  up  their  stifferi'd  sail, 

The  dangerous  way  explore, 
Till  chill,  and  faint,  with  sinking  hearts, 

They  reach  the  houseless  shore. 

Along  the  glaz'd  and  crackling  ice 

They  move  in  agony, 
When  starting  forward  on  their  track, 

The  group  two  red  men  see, 

Who,  with  the  warmth  of  untaught  hearts, 

Their  generous  help  prepare, 
Cover,  and  feed,  and  nourish  them, 

With  hospitable  care. 


Massachusetts  Colony  Records.  t  Cape  Cod. 


78  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

But  cold  had  struck  the  chill  of  death 
On  Guerard's  manly  frame  ; 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  breath 
Which  sigh'd  his  Mary's  name. 

And  she,  that  lone  and  lovely  one, 

Sank  like  a  shooting  star, 
That  springing  out  from  all  its  kin, 

Falls  scatter'd  from  afar  : 

Yet  gather'd  strength  o'er  that  rough  bed 

On  which  her  father  lay, 
And  on  her  fair  breast  laid  his  head, 

And  bent  her  own  to  pray  ; 

And  not  until  his  failing  sigh 
Had  bless'd  her  to  the  last, 

Down  by  his  side  in  anguish  lay, 
And  clasp'd  his  body  fast, 

And  shriek'd,  in  tones  of  piercing  woe, 

"  Return,  return  to  me, 
Leave,  leave  me  not  in  sorrow  here, 

Or  let  me  die  with  thee  !  " 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  79 

Solemn  and  stern  the  Indians  stood, 

While  death  was  passing  by, 
But  when  his  parting  wing  was  flown, 

Loud  rose  their  funeral  cry. 

They  laid  the  body  carefully, 

Like  a  brother  whom  they  lov'd  ; 
The  sandy  soil,  a  frozen  mass, 

A  scanty  covering  prov'd. 

The  wolves  came  howling  for  their  dead, 

And  then  those  Indians  wild, 
As  if  by  tender  instinct  led 

For  his  deserted  child, 

Rais'd  o'er  the  grave  a  noble  pile 

Of  trees  securely  bound, 
Which  kept  the  hungry  fiends  away 

Mid  solitude  profound. 

All  died  but  one  of  that  strong  band 

Who  steer'd  from  Shawmut  bay, 
And  her,  the  young  and  gentle  maid, 

The  blossom  on  their  way. 


80  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  Indians  bore  her  to  her  home, 
Where,  like  a  stricken  flower 

When  winter  winds  have  passed  away, 
She  grac'd  her  native  bower. 

But  often  in  her  after  years, 
She  thought  of  that  lone  grave, 

Where  ocean's  breezes  moan'd  and  sigh'd, 
And  dash'd  the  gather'd  wave  ; 

And  bless'd  the  red  men  of  the  soil, 
Who  gave  her  succor  there, 

And  sought  for  them  with  deeds  of  love, 
And  ask'd  for  them  in  prayer. 

1830. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  81 


FRANCISCO    DE     RIBALTA, 

THE     SPANISH     ARTIST. 


A     BALLAD. 


A  GATHERING  spot  glowed  burningly 
On  young  Ribalta's  brow, 

As  he  stood  on  fair  Valencia's  plain, 
And  breathed  a  parting  vow. 

For  neither  fame  nor  wealth  had  he, 
Yet  sweetly  on  him  smiled 

The  young  and  lovely  Isabel, 
His  master's  only  child. 

"  Farewell,  farewell !  my  Isabel, 
Mine,  though  I  wander  far,  — 

My  love  shall  still  shine  over  thee, 
Like  yonder  distant  star. 
6 


82  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

"  I  feel  within  my  restless  soul 
The  power  to  toil  and  die, 

Or  fix  upon  the  scroll  of  fame 
My  name  in  letters  high. 

"And,  dearest,  I  will  come  again, 
Though  he  may  now  deride, 

And  in  thy  father's  presence  claim 
My  own,  my  gentle  bride. 

"  He  spurned  me  ;  hut  the  goading  word 

To  thee  alone  I  tell ;  — 
He  said,  'a  dauber'  ne'er  should  wed 

His  peerless  Isabel." 

She  spake  not,  but  her  beaming  eye 

Looked  eloquently  kind, 
And  her  young  fingers  in  his  own 

Were  trustingly  entwined. 

One  single,  solitary  tear, 

Came  trickling  down  the  while  ; 

He  kissed  the  falling  gem  away, — 
'T  was  followed  by  a  smile. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES. 

And  not  until  his  waving  plume 

Had  parted  from  her  sight, 
Seemed  she  to  feel  the  cloudiness 

Upon  her  hope's  young  light. 

O,  what  a  wild  and  piercing  gaze 

Is  that  we  throw  upon 
The  sacred  spot  where  one  has  stood 

Who  loved  us,  and  is  gone  ! 

And  what  a  sigh  upheaves  the  soul 
When  stranger  forms  pass  by, 

And  with  their  dark,  ungenial  shade, 
Unspell  the  memory  ! 

Ribalta,  'neath  Italia's  skies, 

Pursued  the  path  to  fame; 
Untired,  he  followed  where  it  led, 

With  thoughts  and  hopes  of  flame. 

He  watch'd  the  day-dawn's  earliest  ray, 

To  urge  his  pictured  toil  ; 
And  bent  with  strained  and  doubtful  eye 

Beneath  the  midnight  oil. 


84  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

And  when  upon  his  growing  work 
His  kindling  glances  fell, 

A  gusli  of  joy  came  o'er  his  heart, 
That  spake  of  Isabel. 

Three  circling  years  his  gentle  love 
Hushed  up  her  widowed  soul  ; 

And  if  a  sigh  escaped  her  heart, 
Hope  through  the  current  stole. 

At  length  he  came  in  manly  truth  ; 

He  heard  her  whispered  tone, 
Her  eyebeam  sank  into  his  soul, 

And  she  was  still  his  own. 

Soon  to  her  father's  vacant  room 
They  passed  with  stealthy  tread  : 

There,  on  an  easel  temptingly, 
A  noble  sketch  was  spread. 

Eager,  Ribalta  seized  the  brush, 
And  wrought  as  life  were  there, 

The  picture  grew,  arid  every  stroke 
Stood  out  with  colors  rare. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  S-3 

And  Isabel  looked  breathless  on, 

With  eyes  and  hands  upraised, 
And  large  drops  beaded  on  his  brow, 

As  thus  she  stood  and  gazed. 

'T  is  done  ;  —  and  now  a  corning  step, 

Her  father's  step  is  heard  ; 
Ribalta,  shrinking  from  his  sight, 

Stifles  the  whispered  word. 

The  Master  starts  —  so  beautiful 

The  new  creation  shone,  — 
The  color,  shade,  expression  too, 

More  lovely  than  his  own. 

"  Why  girl,  there's  magic  in  this  touch," 

The  enraptured  painter  cried, 
"And  only  he  who  wrought  this  work, 

Deserves  thee  for  his  bride." 

A  moment  —  and  Ribalta's  arm 

Encircled  that  fair  maid  ; 
While  at  her  father's  knee  they  knelt, 

And  for  his  blessing  prayed. 

1834. 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


MARY    LEE. 


I  WANDER'D  forth  at  closing  day, 
To  breathe  the  evening  air  ; 

Not  yet  was  dropp'd  the  curtain  gray, 
Which  hides  the  flowerets  fair. 

They  blush'd  in  beauty  'neath  my  tread. 

And  all  their  rich  perfume 
Around  in  generous  fragrance  shed, 

Unwitting  of  their  doom. 

I  could  not  choose  but  bid  my  eye, 

In  simple  gladness,  rest 
Upon  the  gorgeous  drapery, 

That  lined  the  lovely  west. 

And  fain  was  I  to  hear  the  note 

The  black-bird  gaily  sung, 
As  on  the  air  it  seem'd  to  float, 

Arid  o'er  my  heart-strings  rung. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  87 

I  reach'd  the  brook  and  mossy  stone, 

Where,  lingering  still  for  me, 
Was  wont  to  sit  till  twilight  lone, 

My  little  Mary  Lee. 

Her  knitting  in  her  merry  way, 

Would  Mary  hold  on  high, 
And  all  the  progress  of  the  day, 

Upon  my  fingers  try. 

She  was  not  there  —  not  richly  now 

To  me  the  sunset  beam'd  ; 
The  black-bird  caroll'd  on  the  bough, 

But  not  for  me  it  seemM. 

More  bright  than  these  was  Mary's  look, 

When  yesterday  it  shone, 
More  sweet  her  voice,  when  o'er  the  brook, 

She  sent  its  joyous  tone. 

I  hasten'd  onward  to  the  cot, 

Where  Mary's  mother  dwelt,  — 
Why  seem'd  it  such  a  lonely  spot  ? 

I  never  thus  had  felt. 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  woodbine  now  as  gracefully 
Around  the  porch  was  hung, 

The  little  gate  with  motion  free 
As  hospitably  swung. 

I  paused  a  moment  —  and  a  groan 

Fell  deeply  on  my  ear  ; 
I  enter'd,  it  was  Mary's  moan, 

She  knew  not  I  was  near. 

She  knelt  beside  her  mother's  bed, 
Her  head  was  resting  there  ; 

The  mother's  struggling  breath  had  fled, 
Her  daughter  knelt  in  prayer. 

And  tears  came  gushing  on  her  cheek, 
And  sobs  convuls'd  her  frame, 

I  heard  the  little  sufferer  speak, 
It  was  her  mother's  name. 

Come  to  my  arms,  poor  child,  I  cried, 

Come  hither,  Mary  Lee, 
God  has  been  lavish  to  my  pride, 

I  '11  share  his  gifts  with  thee. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  89 

She  lean'd  her  pale  cheek  on  my  breast, 

I  press'd  her  to  my  heart, 
And  from  that  sacred  place  of  rest, 

No  more  shall  she  depart. 

1826. 


90  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


THE   CROW- MINDER   OF  THE   SOUTH. 


ALONE,  amid  the  far  spread  field  he  stands, 
Heaven's  arch  above,  an  amphitheatre 
Of  woods  around.     Wide  his  domain,  and  fair ; 
But  no  companionship  hath  he,  for  he 
Must  scare  the  very  birds  away,  whose  notes 
Are  meet  for  company. 

The  mocking-bird, 

Herald  or  partner  of  his  walk,  must  leave 
Him  here ;  nor  shall  he  list  again  its  cadence. 
Till,  warbling  near  his  lowly  hut,  the  bird 
Pours  forth  orchestral  tones  ambitiously, 
At  midnight  hour,  upon  his  drowsy  ear. 

The  lizard,  creeping  on  the  blighted  tree, 
The  lazy  worm,  unearthing  its  slow  volume, 
The  ant,  which  builds  its  sandy  monument, 
The  butterfly,  a  passing  traveller, 
And  e'en  the  snake,  that  shines  in  motlied  hues. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  91 

Or  frog,  retreating  from  the  burning  sand, 
Or  shining  beetle,  will  he  welcome  now. 

Few  are  his  cares,  nor  irksome  his  employ  ; 
Just  far  enough  remov'd  to  watch  his  prey, 
His  bird-trap  tempting  lies  —  the  oriole  there, 
The  goldfinch,  waxbird,  and  like  forms  of  grace, 
He  snares,  to  gain  a  trifle  for  the  prize. 
The  prison  of  the  finny  race,  he  weaves ; 
Or,  on  his  basket's  growing  plaits  he  toils, 
Counts  o'er  his  gains,  and  whistles  out  his  joy. 

The  forest  trees,  that  stand  like  sentinels, 
Send  out  a  murmur  pleasant  to  the  ear. 
The  turtle  dove,  that  seems  to  mourn,  but  whose 
Low  tone  is  whisper'd  tenderness,  is  there. 
From  thence  the  venturous  ground-pigeon  comes, 
And  with  a  little  band  of  feathered  friends, 
Steals  cautious  to  the  rice-field's  tempting  range, 
When,  faithful  to  his  charge,  the  "  minder  "  shouts, 
With  arms  uprais'd,  and  frighted  they  retire. 

There  the  blue  jay,  the  "  feather'd  harlequin," 
Trims  his  rich  crest,  and  pipes  his  mimic  song  ; 
While,  hidden  mid  damp  brakes,  the  cuckoo's  note 
With  harsh  monotony  assails  the  ear. 
There  the  woodpecker,  busy  epicure, 
Bores  with  his  beak  the  insect's  barky  home, 


92 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


Affrights  them  with  his  feign'd  but  startling  cry, 
Then  coolly  riots  with  his  darting  tongue, 
And  taps  at  intervals  the  hollow  tree. 

But  the  field-minder,  idly  busy,  heeds 
Nor  knows  the  sounds  sweet  to  the  poet's  ear; 
Tho',  when  the  crow's  coarse  note  is  nearer  heard, 
And  his  dark  form  wheels  o'er  the  sunny  field, 
Or  varied  pilferers,  glide  with  stealthy  wing, 
In  softer  guise,  to  rob  the  planter's  toil, 
Then  lifts  he  high  again  his  warning  voice, 
And  waves  his  tawny  arms,  and  beats  the  air, 
While  the  foil'd  plunderers  turn  in  circling  flight, 
And  seek  the  forest's  screening  shades  again. 

What  are  his  thoughts,  that  lone  one,  as  the  sun 
O'ertops  the  pines,  and  wakes  the  woods  to  joy  1 
What  are  his  thoughts,  when  thro'  the  long,  long  blaz< 
Of  summer's  noon,  he  sits  in  solitude  ? 
Right  glad  is  he,  when  the  dark  laborer  comes, 
With  hoe  upon  his  arm —  his  task  well  done, 
And  gives  a  passing  greeting  to  the  boy. 
Full  glad  to  see  the  mastiff  from  the  chase 
Run  with  his  whining  welcome;   aqd  willingly, 
With  passing  negro,  or  with  truant  dog, 
Shares  the  plain  food,  cook'd  near  his  blighted  tree. 

Think  not  the  boy  is  vacant  in  his  mood ; 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  93 

lie  muses  on  relationship,  and  friends; 
He  plans  the  evening  game,  the  Sabbath  prayer, 
He  learns  from  nature's  volumes  lessons  true, 
Foretells  the  storm,  the  harvest  too  —  and  things 
That  'scape  the  world's  philosophy,  he  knows. 
There,  more  than  in  the  city's  jostling  throng, 
He  feels  a  present  Deity.     The  moon, 
Flooding  his  homeward  track  with  gentle  rays, 
Looks  in  his  bosom  on  a  sky-bound  soul ; 
And  the  far  stars,  those  light-houses  of  heaven, 
Tell  him  of  hopes,  beyond  their  glittering  sheen. 

1830. 


94  BALLADS,  DRAMATIC 


ANNIE  IN  THE  GRATE- YARD. 


SHE  bounded  o'er  the  graves, 
With  a  buoyant  step  of  mirth  ; 
She  bounded  o'er  the  graves, 
Where  the  weeping  willow  waves, 
Like  a  creature  not  of  earth. 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  eyes  were  glittering  bright ; 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  little  hands  spread  wide, 

With  an  innocent  delight. 

She  spelt  the  lettered  word, 

That  registers  the  dead  ; 

She  spelt  the  lettered  word, 

And  her  busy  thoughts  were  stirred, 

With  pleasure  as  she  read. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  95 

She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf, 
Left  fluttering  on  a  rose  ; 
She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf, 
Sweet  monument  of  grief, 
That  in  our  church-yard  grows. 

She  culled  it  with  a  smile, 
'T  was  near  her  sister's  mound  ; 
She  culled  it  with  a  smile, 
And  played  with  it  awhile, 
Then  scattered  it  around. 

I  did  not  chill  her  heart, 
Nor  turn  its  gush  to  tears  ; 
I  did  not  chill  her  heart  — 
O,  bitter  drops  will  start, 
Full  soon  in  coming  years. 

1830. 


96  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


THE    WARRIOR. 


O,  WELCOME  the  Warrior,  who  proudly  advances, 
Victorious  from  battle,  a  lord  o'er  the  foe  ! 
As  the  sun  o'er  a  darken'd  creation  he  glances, 
For  the  strong  and  the  valiant  his  arm  has  laid  low. 

O!  haste  to  the  Warrior,  with  a  bright  laurel  grace  him, 
For  the  mighty  are  vanquished  —  the  timid  have  fled  ; 
As  a  chief  of  the  earth,  as  a  saviour,  address  him, 
And  let  halos  of  honor  encircle  his  head. 

He  has  braved  as  a  rock  the  wild  force  of  the  battle. 
And  foes  from  his  side  fell  like  showery  foam ; 
Around  him  has  sounded  war's  deafening  rattle, 
But  he  stood  in  the  storm  like  the  sky  threatening  dome. 

Men,  raise  your  deep  voices  in  praise  of  his  glory ! 
And  women,  in  reverence  bow  at  his  name; 
Infants  in  lispings  reecho  the  story, 
And  matrons,  swell  loudly  the  trump  of  his  fame ! 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  97 

His  praise  shall  extend  over  land  and  wide  ocean, 

Where  princes  will  listen  in  wonder  and  joy  ; 

'T  will  float  to  far  ages  and  kindle  devotion, 

And  children — like  men — seize  the  sword  to  destroy. 

Already  your  shout  heaven's  concave  is  rending, 
And  the  Hero's  great  name  is  repeated  around  ; 
But  hark  !  as  I  listen,  a  wild  shriek  is  blending  ! 
Another,  another,  increases  the  sound. 

Oh,  Heaven !  the  moans  of  the  wounded  and  dying 
Are  blent  with  the  plaudits  that  swell  in  the  air ; 
Wife,  children,  and  friends,  mid  the  tumult  are  crying, 
"  Death,  death  to  the  conqueror  who  gives  us  despair!" 

I  listen,  and  fancy  assists  the  faint  mourning, 
Of  an  infant,  whose  parents  are  torn  from  the  world  ; 
Again,  but  now  hoarser  the  sound  is  returning, 
A  sinner's  dark  soul  from  its  mansion  is  hurl'd ! 

And  is  it  for  this,  that  the  laurel  is  given, 
When  man  turns  a  murderer  and  foe  to  his  kind  ? 
For  this  does  the  shout  of  applause  assail  Heaven 
From  creatures  for  rational  virtue  designed? 

O 

7 


98  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Blush,  Warrior,  blush  !  while  thou  fanciest  before  thee 
The  beings  whose  happiness  thou  hast  o'erthrown ;  — 
Who,  frantic  with  want  and  affliction,  implore  thee 
To  soothe  the  crushed  hearts  left  to  perish  alone. 

Hear  fatherless  infants  with  feeble  wail  crvin<r 

*          o ' 

While  mothers  stand  shuddering  and  pale  at  thy  name  ! 
See  groups  from  that  red  field  in  misery  flying, 
Who  curse  at  thy  praises,  or  weep  at  thy  fame  ! 

And  what  is  the  glory  resplendent  around  thee? 

A  glittering  meteor  that  fades  in  its  blaze,  — 

Light  perishing  foam,  whose  bright  sparkles  surround 

thee, 
Then  dash  on  the  shore,  and  disperse  at  thy  gaze  ! 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.  1812. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  99 


THE     YOUNGEST    ONE. 


I  SAW  a  mother  with  her  child, 
And  each  with  each  appeared  beguiled ; 
So  tenderly  they  spake  and  smiled, 
I  knew  it  was  her  youngest  one. 

She  leaned  upon  her  mother's  knee, 
With  look  half  tender  and  half  free, 
And  O,  by  that  sweet  liberty, 

I  knew  it  was  her  youngest  one. 

A  whisper  came  with  love  o'erfraught ; 
Soon  was  returned  the  whispered  thought, 
As  though  in  this  wide  world  were  nought 
But  she,  and  her  dear  youngest  one. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  you  must  not  go, 
And  leave  your  little  girl,  you  know, 
Because  no  other  loves  you  so, 

Like  me,  your  darling  youngest  one. 


100  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

"  Father  is  often  called  away, 
And  sisters  with  their  playmates  stray, 
But  I  beside  you  always  stay,  — 

You  must  not  leave  your  youngest  one.  " 

I  heard  a  promise  and  a  kiss, 
I  saw  a  smile  of  trusting  bliss, 
O,  nought  can  sever,  after  this, 

The  mother  and  her  youngest  one. 

1829. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  101 


"BEYOND   THE   SABBATH." 


The  Backwoodsmen  of  North  America,  when  they  throw  off  the 
forms  of  society,  and  retreat  into  the  forests,  say,  they  will  "  fly  be 
yond  Sabbath."  —  FLINT'S  Valley  of  the  Mississippi. 

[The  record-tree  alluded  to  in  the  following  stanzas,  refers  to  the 
custom  of  some  settlers,  who  preserve  the  date  of  time  by  mark 
ing  the  seventh  day.] 


THE    BACKWOODSMAN. 

HE  flies  ! 
He  seeks  the  moaning  forest  trees, 

The  sunny  prairie,  or  the  mountain  sweep, 
The  swelling  river  rushes  to  the  seas, 

The  cataract,  foaming  'neath  the  dizzy  steep, 
Or  softer  streams,  that  by  the  green  banks  sleep, 
To  these  he  flies. 


102  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

He  lists 
The  crackling  of  the  springing  deer, 

The  shrill  cry  of  the  soaring  water-fowl, 
The  serpent  hissing  at  his  lone  couch  near, 
The  wild  bear  uttering  loud  her  hungry  howl, 
The  panther  with  his  low  expecting  growl, 
Unmov'd  he  lists. 


Wanderer, 
"  Beyond  the  Sabbath,"  tell  me  why, 

With  eager  step  you  shun  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  from  the  music  of  the  church  bells  fly, 
That  floating  sweetly  o'er  your  native  glen, 
Call  you  to  worship  by  their  chime  again  ? 
Say,  wanderer,  why  ? 

You  know, 
You  feel,  beneath  the  woodland  skies, 

When  comes  the  seventh  day  of  sacred  rest, 
Deep  wells  of  fond  remembrance  struo-crlino-  rise. 

*  3O  O 

Within  the  caverns  of  your  rocky  breast  — 

A  gush  of  thought,  like  visions  of  the  blest, 

At  times  you  know. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  103 

And  you 
Will  turn,  and  mark  the  record-tree 

In  stealthy  silence,  and  a  gentle  prayer 
Unconsciously  will  struggle  to  get  free, 
And  you  will  feel  there  is  a  purer  air, 
More  holy  stillness  over  nature  fair, 
Which  softens  you. 


How  sweet 
The  strain  of  skyey  minstrelsy, 

That  floats  above  you  in  the  wild  bird's  song  ! 
Seems  it  to  you,  the  hymn  of  infancy, 

Borne  on  the  breezes  of  remembrance  long, 
When  you  were  foremost  in  the  Sabbath  throng ! 
Those  strains  were  sweet ! 


Such  tones 
Are  swelling  yet  in  many  a  spot, 

Sacredly  twining  out  with  praise  and  joy  ; 
And  there  's  a  group,  Oh,  they  forget  you  not, 
Who  prayers  and  tears  for  you,  for  you  employ, 
And  hopes,  that  even  time  cannot  destroy, 
Are  in  their  tones. 


104  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

They  call, 
They  call  you,  rover,  back  again ! 

There  is  a  mound  beneath  your  village  spire, 
Where,  touch'd  by  love,  your  tears  would  fall  like  rain  ; 
It  shields  a  holy  man,  your  aged  sire, 
Who  sought  in  life  to  curb  your  youthful  fire, 
Hear  his  death  call ! 


In  vain  ;  — 
Alas,  you  heed  not  e'en  that  call ; 

Proudly  you  stand  upon  the  red  man's  ground, 
And  woman's  tears,  that  slow  and  silent  fall, 
Slighted,  from  your  resolved  breast  rebound, 
Your  free  words  thro'  the  woodland  depths  resound, 
"Her  call  is  vain!  " 


Farewell, 
Forever,  roamer  of  the  wild ! 

God,  whom  you  can  forget,  his  own  will  see  ; 
His  sun  still  shines  upon  his  erring  child, 
His  breezes  fan  you,  with  their  current  free, 
And  his  green  sod  your  burial  place  shall  be. 
Oh,  fare  you  well ! 

1835. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  105 


THE    SAILOR'S    DAUGHTER. 


A    BALLAD. 


SAFE  rolls  the  ship  at  anchor  now, 
The  sailor  clears  his  anxious  brow, 
And  with  a  deep,  but  silent  vow, 
Blesses  his  little  daughter  ! 

O 

His  duty  far  has  bid  him  roam, 
Amid  the  dash  of  ocean's  foam, 
But  welcome  now  the  sailor's  home, 
And  she,  his  little  daughter  ! 

Her  velvet  arm  is  o'er  him  thrown, 
Her  words  breathe  forth  in  gladsome  tone, 
He  feels  that  she  is  all  his  own, 
The  seaman's  little  daughter  ! 


106  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

"  Father,  you  shall  not  quit  your  child, 
And  go  upon  the  seas  so  wild, 
For  scarcely  has  my  mother  smiFd, 
Upon  her  little  daughter  ! 

"  I  care  not  for  the  coral  gay, 
Nor  costly  shells,  when  you  're  away  ; 
Dear  father,  with  my  mother  stay, 
And  smile  upon  your  daughter  ! 

"  We  hear  the  fierce  winds  rushing  by, 
And  then  my  mother  heaves  a  sigh, 
And  when  it  storms,  we  sit  and  cry, 
My  mother  and  your  daughter  !  " 

Her  head  upon  his  shoulder  lay, 
He  smooth'd  her  silken  ringlets'  play  ; 
She  fell  asleep  in  that  sweet  way, 
The  seaman's  little  daughter. 

1834. 


AN'D    OTHER    SKETCHES.  107 


ISAAC     HAYNE, 


THE    PATRIOT    MARTYR    OF    CAROLINA. 


AS    HISTORICAL    DRAMATIC    SKETCH. 


Time,  August,  1781,  while  Charleston  was  in  possession  of  the  British. 

[The  incidents  are  gathered  from  Ramsay's  History,  Garden's  An 
ecdotes,  Lee's  Memoirs,  and  the  Southern  Review.] 

A    STREET. 

Enter  an  American  citizen.     Speaks. — 
TERRIFIC  war  !  how  heavy  are  thy  chains. 
Bright  though  thou  art  to  infancy,  which  sees 
In  nodding  plume  and  keenly  burnish'd  sword, 
But  gaudy  toys  ;  —  bright  to  the  daring  youth, 
Whose  ear  excited  finds  discourse  most  rare 
In  trumpet  note,  artillery's  deaf'ning  roar, 
And  measured  foot-fall  ;  —  bright  to  maiden  glance, 


103  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

That  in  Love's  eye,  reads  bravery,  honor,  fame ;  — 
And  bright  to  manhood,  that  forever  pants 
For  deeds  emblazoned  on  thy  bloody  page  ; 
Still  thou  art  dark  to  him,  whose  fettered  arm 
Makes  impotent  his  icill ;  and  whose  frail  life 
Hangs  on  the  fiat  of  a  mortal's  word. 

[Enter  second  Citizen. 

Hast  heard  the  fate  of  Hayne  within  this  hour? 
Still  doth  the  tyrant  Commandant  deny 
The  trial  e'en  to  malefactors  given? 

SECOND    CITIZEN'. 

He  does:  war's  summary  decree  prevails  : 
lie  dies  to-morrow. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

Heaven  !  what  savage  haste  ! 
Hayne  !  Hayne  !   for  thee,  America  will  weep 
Stern  tears,  but  soon  shall  Britain  pay  them  back 
In  drops  of  blood  I 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

Speak  low,  apart  here.     Hist ! 

[  They  retire. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  109 

A  GARDEJV.      TWO  AMERICAN  LADIES. 
FIRST    LADY. 

Hayne  sentenced  to  an  ignominious  death? 
Would  that  this  arm  could  wield  a  warrior's  blade  ! 
America  wants  men,  when  such  things  are. 

SECOND    LADY. 

Be  calm,  dear  sister  !  this  insensate  war 
Respects  not  woman's  helplessness,  nor  leaves 
Our  shrinking  sex  from  brutal  wrong  secure : 
Oh  !  then,  provoke  it  not,  for  even  now 
My  soul  doth  shudder  at  the  fate,  o'er  which 
The  future  hangs  its  mantle. 

FIRST    LADY. 

I  could  weep, 

But  my  hot  cheeks  would  drink  the  gushing  tears ;  — 
I'll  not  be  still,  —  the  echoes  shall  awake, 
And  answer  "murder"  to  this  deed  !  —  I  would 
/  were  the  night-mare  on  Lord  Rawdon's  breast, 
To  crouch  in  dreams  and  scream  there,  Murder!  Murder! 
What !  Hayne,  the  soul  of  chivalry  and  truth, 
Hayne,  sentenced  to  the  scaffold  !  while  mean  forms 
Bask  in  life's  sunshine,  or  go  gliding  down 
To  peaceful  graves?     It  may  not,  shall  not  be  !  — 


110  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

SECOND   LADY. 

Thy  spirit  frights  me,  Helen.     Sure  't  is  not 
For  woman  thus  to  judge  of  soldier-deeds. 
Soft  as  these  flowers,  which  silent  ope  around, 
Yielding  sweet  perfume  to  the  gentle  breeze, 
Woman  should  live,  and  distant  from  earth's  strife, 
Look  ever  to  the  sky  in  loveliness. 

FIRST    LADY. 

Loveliness,  Anna,  is  a  word  for  peace. 
Stern  deeds  are  beauty  now.  —  Our  land  is  rous'd, 
And  claims  from  woman's  hand  a  nobler  task, 
Than  thus  to  sit  in  summer  bowers,  and  tune 
The  fairy  lute  or  list  the  wild  bird's  song. 
See'st  thou  yon  clustering  vine,  whose  trumpet  flowers 
Toss  in  luxurious  clusters  on  the  wind  ? 
'T  is  beautiful,  I  own,  and  so  is  woman  : 
But  Anna,  those  bright  blossoms  hide  a  power 
Called  poison,  and  perchance,  to  our  soft  sex 
God  gives  like  art  to  injure  when  she's  crush'd,  — 
But  time  is  lost ;  before  the  set  of  sun, 
Hundreds  of  names  clustered  in  full  appeal, 
Will  show  stern  Balfour  and  the  tory  Lord, 
That  "  rebel  women  "  *  sometimes  quit  their  bowers. 


*  South  Carolina  women  gloried  in  this  appellation.  —  Garden's 
Anecdotes. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  Ill 

STREET.     AMERICAN  CITIZENS. 
FIRST    CITIZEN. 

A  mournful  stir  runs  through  the  city  streets  ; 

Men  speak  with  lowering  brows,  in  whispered  tones, 

And  now  an  oath  impatient,  or  a  hand 

Clinch'd  suddenly,  shows  public  mood.  —  What  news? 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

A  respite  for  a  few  brief  hours  is  given, 
That  Hayne  may  bless  his  children  ere  he  dies. 
All  has  been  urged,  that  pity,  love,  respect, 
Could  urge,  yet  all  in  vain.  —  Our  Governor, 
Borne  on  a  litter,  faint  and  overtasked, 
Humbly  besought,  in  low  but  earnest  speech, 
Those  callous  men ;  but  he  appealed  in  vain  ! 
Then  came  intrepid  women  from  their  homes, 
Bearing  petitions  blotted  with  their  tears  ; 
I  marked  each  faltering  step  and  pleading  gaze, 
And  graceful  gesture,  as  they  urg'd  their  suit : 
Rawdon,  with  courtly  air  and  polished  phrase, 
Received  them,  but  denied  their  modest  claim, 
While  Balfour  mingled  scorn  with  harsh  repulse  ; 
Till,  blinded  by  their  tears,  they  turned  away, 
Hope's  slight  raft  lost  amid  grief's  ocean-tide. 


BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Scarce  had  they  gone,  when,  clad  in  mourning  robes, 

With  mourning  hearts,  still  sadder  suppliants  came, 

The  prisoner's  children, — no  fond  parents  near 

To  aid.     The  eldest  boy,  with  anxious  brow, 

Too  early  marked  by  care,  advanced  the  first. 

Upon  his  arm,  despondingly  leaned  one, 

Whom  the  strong  ties  of  sisterhood  and  love 

Link'd  to  his  injured  sire ;   and  when  he  saw 

Her  pallid  lip,  and  felt  her  shrinking  form 

Start  at  the  glitter  of  the  foeman's  arms, 

He  braced  himself  anew,  and  proudly  stood, 

As  if  his  boyhood  felt  the  nerve  and  power 

To  guard  her  from  a  host  of  coming  ills.  — 

Then  came  the  girl,  a  creature  sylph-like  bright, 

Yet  with  soft,  liquid  eyes,  that  drooped  beneath 

The  falling  lids  ;  while  sorrow's  frost  had  blanched 

Her  rose-cheek  colored  by  eleven  springs. 

In  close  embrace  she  clasp'd  the  hand  of  one, 

A  younger  blossom,  on  whom  nursery  cares 

Were  yet  employed,  but  who,  not  versed  in  tears, 

Stood  by  his  father's  foes  to  plead  with  smiles. 

They  knelt,  that  touching  group !  and  would  have  spoke, 

But  stifling  grief  denied  them  utterance, 

And  all  that  they  could  cry  was,  "  Save  my  father  !" 

Once  from  the  eldest  boy  these  words  were  wrung, 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  113 

"  My  mother 's  dead  !     Two  children  share  her  grave, 

Take  not  my  father  too  !  "  —  but  't  was  too  low 

To  reach  his  ear,  and  if  it  had,  his  heart 

Was  closed  and  ice-bound  to  the  thrilling  cry. 

But  when  the  stern  denial  was  returned, 

Which  sealed  his  father's  fate,  the  elder  son 

Look'd  round  with  desperate  glance,  and  clenched  his 

hands, 

While  a  quick  shriek  of  agony  burst  forth 
From  those  young  mourners,  and  in  wild  despair 
Reeling,  they  fell  into  each  other's  arms, 
And  thus  were  borne,  in  agony,  away.  [ A  pause. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

A  restless  fever  burns  within  my  soul  ; 
My  daily  tasks  are  hateful,  and  1  turn 
Instinctively  to  grasp  my  idle  sword.  [  They  retire. 

PROVOST    PRfSOJY.* 

Hayne  alone,  walking  calmly  as  if  in  meditation  —  listens  as  the  bell 
strikes  twelve. 

HAYNE   speaks. 

St.  Michael's  chime  !  Oh  what  a  throng  of  scenes 
From  day  to  day  its  signal  ushers  in. 


*  Now  the  Exchange. 
8 


114  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

The  infant's  welcome  birth  it  heralds,  or 

The  bridal  hour,  —  while  often  floats  its  peal 

In  solemn  requiems  round  the  couch  of  death  : 

And  like  a  requiem  sounds  it  now  to  me, 

For  I  am  dying ;  death  is  felt  by  him 

Who  in  the  settled  gloom  of  midnight,  knows 

To-morrow's  shades  must  gather  o'er  his  grave. 

My  wife,  my  buried  one  !  on  whose  still  couch 

The  planted  flowers  have  scarcely  oped  in  bloom  ; 

And  ye,  fair  buds  of  being,  who  did  close 

So  soon  your  veined  lids  in  death  ;  —  I  come  ! 

I  come  !  —  too  thankful  that  this  treacherous  earth 

O'er  you  has  lost  its  power  :  —  Ye  rest  secure  ! 

Ye  war  not  with  the  reveries,  conjuring  up 

Dim,  phantom  forms,  that  in  the  midnight  crowd 

Too  often  round  my  pillow ;  nor  the  dreams 

(Thank  God  !  they  are  but  dreams,)  where  faces  peer 

In  madd'ning  glee  upon  my  spirit's  eye  : 

Nor,  worse  than  all,  that  looking  for  of  death, 

Untimely  and  degrading,  where  the  soul 

Leaves  not  the  placid  clay  in  quiet  peace, 

But  all  is  struggling  horror ! Blessed  ones  ! 

Your  bed  is  green,  and  there,  through  flickering  leaves 
The  sun  slants  downward  on  the  springing  stems, 
And  moonlight  slumbers  gently  on  the  dew. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  115 

Not  by  your  grave  the  mob's  coarse  shout  is  heard, 
But  summer  birds  trill  their  sweet  lays  of  joy. 
The  executioner,  with  death-bronzed  look, 
Frowns  not  upon  that  spot,  but  gushing  tears 
Drop  tenderly  from  loving  eyes.  —  'T  is  well  ! 
My  children !  would  that  I  could  thus  be  laid 
Where,  from  the  burnished  oak,  the  hoary  moss 
Waves  its  grey  banner  to  the  passing  breeze.  — 
Alas!  my  noble  boys  and  orphan  girl, 
Who  still  contend  with  life's  tumultuous  waves, 
My  whole  heart  sickens  and  my  head  is  faint 
With  thoughts  of  you,  —  left  fatherless. 

OGod! 

How  tenderly  would  I  have  nursed  their  youth, 
Reft  of  that  blessed  mother's  fostering  love, 
Whose  gentle  eye  is  shrouded  o'er  by  death, 
Nor  longer  beams  above  their  breathing  sleep, 
Shedding  a  constant  sunlight  over  all. 
Death  had  been  soften'd,  dear  ones  !  could  but  I 
Have  lain  my  cheek  to  yours,  and  felt  your  hands 
Press  down  my  dying  lids  with  filial  care, 
And  borne  a  message  of  your  love  to  her, 
Who  waits  to  greet  her  household  in  the  skies. 
And  thou,  my  country  !  I  had  hoped  to  see 
The  star  of  conquest  lighting  up  thy  brow. 


116  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Yet  'neath  the  waves  of  woe  upon  my  soul, 
I  feel  an  under-current  of  stern  joy, 
That  I  may  die  for  thee.  —  Oh!   many  a  hand 
Now  feeble,  will  be  nerved  with  sudden  strength 
When  the  sad  story  of  my  wrongs  is  heard.  — 
Touch'd  by  my  fate,  the  daughters  of  the  South 
Shall  bend  in  mingled  thought  around  my  grave, 
Aveng'd  by  brother-swords.     New  England's  sons 
Hearing  the  tale,  and  bracing  up  their  souls 
Shall  rush  upon  the  foe,  fierce  as  the  winds 
Athwart  their  icy  hills.     Posterity 
Will  not  unkindly  dwell  upon  my  name. 

But,  Heavenly  Father  !  this  is  not  the  hour 
To  cling  thus  fervently  to  earthly  things  ;  — 
Let  these  low  clouds  of  thought,  though  colored  up 
With  deathless  hues  of  love  and  loyalty, 
Roll  off,  and  leave  me  with  myself  and  Thee. 

{Meditates. 

EAST-BAY.    TWO   AMERICANS. 
FIRST     SOLDIER. 

Noonday  burns  : 

Bright  sunshine,  yet  deep  gloom  is  o'er  the  scene, 
A  shade  like  death.     I  could  not  join  the  crowd, 
But  wrapt  in  bitter  musings,  here  remained. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  1  17 

And  what  a  solemn  hush  !     The  zepyhr's  breath 
Scarce  ruffles  yonder  vessel's  snowy  sail ; 
And  the  blue  wave,  with  such  a  gentle  plash 
As  summer  rivers  yield,  kisses  the  bastion  : 
White  clouds  rest  lightly  on  the  upper  deep, 
The  oars-man's  stroke  falls  clearly,  and  behold  ! 
The  very  winds  disdain  to  lift  on  high 
The  British  flag,  on  yonder  distant  tower. 
Nature  is  still,  but  what  a  tempest  wild 
Rages  in  human  hearts.     I  cannot  breathe 
This  air,  and  the  midsummer's  sun  is  faint 
To  the  hot  fire  that  kindles  up  my  soul. 
O  God  !  sustain  him  !  't  is  a  fearful  thing, 
With  perfect  sense  and  strong  corporeal  power, 
To  quit  this  gladsome  earth. 

SECOND     SOLDIER. 

The  town 's  quite  alone, 
A  few  t'  exult,  but  oh  !  far  more  to  weep 
Have  joined  the  funeral  throng.     I  could  not  bear 
The  spectacle.     The  image  haunts  me  now 
Of  that  dark  prison  scene. 

FIRST    SOLDIER. 

When  wert  thou  there  ? 


118  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

SECOND    SOLDIER. 

Last  evening,  and  my  inmost  heart  retains 
The  vision  still.     A  messenger  I  went, 
And  saw  them  all  —  the  children  and  their  sire. 
And  through  my  future  life,  on  memory's  height 
That  scene  will  stand,  like  some  lone,  broken  column, 
Sad,  but  most  beautiful !     Beside  the  door 
At  which  I  entered,  stood  a  Hessian  guard. 
Alas  !  my  country!  do  I  live  to  tell 
Of  foreign  hirelings,  who  thus  lord  it  o'er  thee  ? 
A  coffin  was  at  hand,  shrouded  above 
With  sable  pall,  save  where  an  open  space 
Display'd  the  garniture  of  white  within. 
I  little  marked  the  prison ;  but  we  know 
War  decks  not  oft,  with  niceties  of  show, 
The  grated  chamber,  where  the  sentenced  lie, 
Though  downy  pillows  willing  slaves  have  spread, 
And  busy  love,  with  an  untiring  zeal, 
Has  ministered  through  life  to  each  slight  wish. 

A  thoughtful  quiet  sat  upon  his  brow, 
Varied  at  moments  by  some  sudden  gush 
Of  anguish  from  his  friends,  as  the  smooth  lake, 
When  from  a  passing  cloud  the  rain  drops  fall, 
Breaking  its  stillness,  chafes,  but  silently, 
And  then  reflects  all  heaven  in  calm  again. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  119 

Upon  his  knee  nestled  the  youngest  boy, 

Who  conscious  seem'd  of  grief  he  thought  to  soothe 

With  pretty  toying.  —  Double  love  was  his.  — 

His  fair  twin-blossom  had  been  laid  asleep 

In  early  death,  within  his  mother's  arms, 

And  shared  her  grave  ;  therefore  th,e  father's  voice 

Grew  tremulous,  when  he  addressed  the  boy, 

And  therefore  did  he  hide  his  face  at  times, 

When  nature  was  too  strong,  'mid  the  child's  curls. 

Claspt  in  his  other  arm,  leaned  a  fair  girl, 

Glowing  and  fresh  in  childhood's  ripening  bloom. 

I  did  not  see  her  face,  for  on  his  breast 

She  hung  like  a  cropt  lily,  while  loud  sobs 

Came  deep  and  shivering  from  her  youthful  frame. 

But  once  (her  head  uprais'd  to  wipe  the  tears 

She  did  not  strive  to  check)  her  eager  glance 

Fell  on  the  ready  coffin  ;  —  a  wild  shriek 

Of  piteous  woe  still  ringing  on  my  ear, 

Burst  from  her  lips ;  then  to  her  father's  neck 

She  clung,  claiming  protection.     E'en  as  one 

Resolved  to  bear  his  prrt,  the  elder  boy 

Stood  silent,  though  the  gushing  tears  burst  forth 

And  roll'd  unheeded  down. 

The  martyr  spoke ; 
And  in  that  listening  group  a  footfall  slight, 


120  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

Such  the  intense  excitement  of  the  scene, 
Would  have  seemed  loud  as  thunder  ;  for  a  voice 
So  near  the  grave  sounds  like  an  oracle. 
"  'T  is  not  so  dread  a  thing,  my  friends,  to  die, 
If  the  firm  mind  rallies  its  better  thoughts, 
And  looks  without  this  shell  of  earth.     'T  is  but 
The  foretaste  of  some  few  short  years,  or  days 
Perchance,  when  stern  disease,  with  tyrant  touch, 
Harsher  than  hangman's  hand,  would  act  its  part. 
Oh!  weep  not  thus:  a  coward  had  I  been, 
Ye  might  have  wept,  for  bitter  are  the  tears 
That  fall  upon  a  recreant  traitor's  grave. 
I  chiefly  grieve  that  this  my  tragic  fate 
May  rouse  the  unholy  passion  of  revenge, 
And  war,  with  hydra-head  be  arm'd  anew." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  a  lower  tone, 
In  soften'd  cadence,  and  I  caught  not  all, 
But  solemn  words  fell  broken  on  my  ear, 
"Children — religion — mother — grave — Almighty  ;  "- 
I  heard  no  more,  for  gathering  sobs  arose 
From  every  heart ;  the  children  to  their  sire 
More  closely  clung,  and  I,  with  gushing  tears, 
Withdrew. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  121 

THE  BARRACKS.     BRITISH  SOLDIERS. 

FIRST    SOLDIER. 

Saw  you  the  traitor  meet  his  fate  ? 
My  duties  called  me  here. 

SECOND    SOLDIER. 

Oh  !  breathe  it  not 
Again,  my  comrade,  but  this  deed  cries  "  murder  !  " 

FIRST    SOLDIER. 

Speak  not  thus  harshly.     'T  is  the  chance  of  war. 

SECOND    SOLDIER. 

"  The  chance  of  war  ! "  to  use  thy  worldly  phrase, 
Once  made  me  prisoner  to  the  foe.     Wounded 
And  bowed  with  care,  I  lay,  while  thoughts  of  home, 
Of  Mary  and  my  smiling  babe,  so  play'd 
Upon  my  heart-strings,  I  was  moved  to  tears. 
Hayne  saw  rne,  question'd  of  my  health  and  state, 
Soothed  me  with  gentle  words  and  Christian  deeds, 
And  granted  me  soldierly  exchange, 
Yes,  Britons  whisper  of  his  worthiness, 
And  his  too  short  reprieve  sprang  from  their  claim 
(Unask'd  by  him,  but  oh!  how  felt  by  me) 
"Humanity  to  prisoners." 


122  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

FIRST      SOLDIER. 

What  was 
His  bearing  at  the  final  scene? 

SECOND     SOLDIER. 

Comrade, 

Thou'st  viewed  a  noble  ship  with  sails  all  set, 
Riding  majestic  on  the  ocean  deep, 
And  when  a  vexing  wind  has  crossed  her  path 
Hast  seen  her  yield  a  moment,  then  again 
Righting  herself  press  nobly  on  her  way. — 
'T  was  thus  with  him.     When  the  base  instrument 
Of  death  first  met  his  eye,  he  back  recoil'd, 
But  soon  regained  his  bearing  calm  on  high. 
There  lingered,  it  is  said,  within  his  breast 
A  hope,  that  like  a  soldier  he  might  die  ; 
It  was  his  last  request,  and  was  refused. 
But,  brother,  there  are  men  and  moods  can  throw 
A  dignity  o'er  basest  offices. 
I  felt  this  truth  imprest  by  him. 

A  crowd 

Gathering  and  swelling  from  the  Eastern  Bay, 
To  where  the  woods  upon  the  city's  bound, 
Northward  arise,  followed  the  soldier's  steps. 
His  stripling  son  was  there,  and  hardened  hearts 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  123 

Melted  to  sympathy  with  his  young  grief. 
His  father  paused,  and  bade  the  weeping  boy 
Bear  his  remains  to  his  ancestral  tomb : 
Then  with  the  calm  farewell  man  gives  to  man, 
When  slumber's  couch  is  sought,  addressed  his  friends, 
And  folding  round  his  soul  faith's  radiant  robe, 
Arose  to  Heaven.     Methought  the  earth  grew  dark ; 
Men  walked  as  spectres,  and  my  reason  reel'd.  — 

Comrade,  to  me  it  is  a  soothing  thought, 
(Although  a  stranger,  once  alas  !  a  foe,) 
That  in  his  kindred  burial-place  in  peace 
The  soldier  rests.     I've  seen  the  sacred  spot. 
There  many  a  pilgrim  rev'rently  shall  turn, 
Foeman  and  friend,  and  sadly,  deeply  muse, 
While  dwelling  on  the  Patriot-Martyr's  wrongs, 
Who,  doom'd  to  die  a  traitor's  cruel  death, 
Ask'd  but  a  soldier's  doom,  and  was  denied. 

And  let  me  whisper  my  heart's  prophecy.  — 
His  high  resolve  will  nerve  Columbia's  heart, 
Brace  freedom's  arm  anew,  and  teach  her  foes 
"  How  nobly  an  American  can  die." 


.NOTE  1.  —  Hay  ne's  last  promise  to  a  friend  previous  to  his  exe 
cution,  was,  that  he  would  show  "  how  an  American  could  die." 

NOTE  2.  —  Col.  Hayne  was  interred  in  the  family  burial-ground 
in  St.  Bartholomew's  Parish,  four  miles  beyond  Jacksonboro'. 


124  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 


JAIRUS'    DAUGHTER. 


LUKE.   VIII. 


[First  published  in  the  North  American  Review.] 

THEY  have  watched  her  last  and  quivering  breath, 

And  the  maiden's  soul  has  flown  ; 
They  have  wrapt  her  in  the  robes  of  death, 

And  laid  her,  dark  and  lone. 

But  the  mother  casts  a  look  behind, 

And  weeps  for  that  fallen  flower  ; 
Nay,  start  not — 'twas  the  passing  wind, 

Those  limbs  have  lost  their  power. 

And  tremble  not  at  that  cheek  of  snow, 

Over  which  the  faint  light  plays ; 
'T  is  only  the  curtain's  crimson  glow, 

Which  thus  deceives  thy  gaze. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  ]25 

Didst  thou  not  close  that  expiring  eye, 

And  feel  the  soft  pulse  decay  ? 
And  did  not  thy  lips  receive  the  sigh, 

That  bore  her  soul  away  ? 

She  lies  on  her  couch,  all  pale  and  hush'd, 

And  heeds  not  thy  gentle  tread, 
And  is  still  as  the  spring-flower  by  traveller  crush'd, 

Which  dies  on  its  snowy  bed. 

Her  mother  has  passed  from  that  lonely  room, 

And  the  maid  is  still  and  pale, 
Her  ivory  hand  is  cold  as  the  tomb, 

And  dark  is  the  stiften'd  nail. 

Her  mother  retires  with  folded  arms, 

And  her  head  is  bent  in  woe ; 
Her  heart  is  shut  to  joys  or  harms, 

No  tear  attempts  to  flow. 

But  listen  !  what  name  salutes  her  ear  ? 

It  comes  to  a  heart  of  stone  — 
"  Jesus,"  she  cries,  "  has  no  power  here, 

My  daughter's  spirit  has  flown  !  " 


126  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

He  leads  the  way  to  that  cold  white  couch, 
And  bends  o'er  that  senseless  form  ; 

She  breathes  !  She  breathes  !  at  his  hallow'd  touch 
The  maiden's  hand  is  warm. 

And  the  fresh  blood  comes  with  its  roseate  hue, 
And  life  spreads  quick  through  her  frame, 

Her  head  is  raised,  and  her  step  is  true, 
And  she  murmurs  her  mother's  name. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.  1812. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  127 


JEPHTHAH'S   RASH    VOW. 


THE  battle  had  ceas'd,  and  the  victory  was  won, 

The  wild  cry  of  horror  was  o'er.  — 
Now  arose  in  his  glory  the  bright  beaming  sun, 
And  with  him,  his  journey  the  war-chief  begun, 

With  a  soul  breathing  vengeance  no  more. 

The  foes  of  his  country  lay  strew'd  on  the  plain  — 

A  tear  stole  its  course  to  his  eye, 
But  the  warrior  disdain'd  every  semblance  of  pain, 
He  thought  of  his  child,  of  his  country  again, 

And  suppress'd,  while  't  was  forming,  a  sigh. 

"  Oh,  Father  of  light !  "  said  the  conquering  chief, 

"  The  vow  which  I  made,  I  renew  ; 
'T  was  thy  powerful  arm  gave  the  welcome  relief, 
When  I  call'd  on  thy  name  in  the  fulness  of  grief, 

And  my  hopes  were  but  cheerless  and  few. 


128  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

"  An  off'ring  of  love  will  I  pay  at  thy  fane, 

An  off'ring  thou  canst  not  despise  : 
The  first  being  I  meet,  when  I  welcome  again 
The  land  of  my  fathers,  I  left  not  in  vain, 

With  the  flames  on  thy  altar  shall  rise." 

Now  hush'd  were  his  words,  thro'  the  far   spreading 
bands, 

Nought  was  heard  but  the  foot-fall  around  — 
Till  his  feet  in  glad  tread  press  his  own  native  lands, 
And  to  heav'n  are  uplifted  his  conquering  hands  ; 

Not  a  voice  breaks  the  silence  profound. 

O,  listen!   at  distance  what  harmonies  sound, 

And  at  distance,  what  maiden  appears'? 
See,  forward  she  comes  with  a  light  springing  bound, 
And  casts  her  mild  eye  in  fond  ecstasy  round 
For  a  parent  is  seen  through  her  tears ! 

Her  harp's  wildest  chord  gives  a  strain  of  delight; 

A  moment  —  she  springs  to  his  arms  ! 
"  My  daughter,  Oh  God  ! "  —  Not  the  horrors  of  fight, 
While  legion  on  legion  against  him  unite, 

Could  bring  to  his  soul  such  alarms. 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  129 

In  horror  he  starts,  as  a  fiend  had  appear'd, 

His  eyes  in  mute  agony  close ; 
His  sword  o'er  his  age-frosted  forehead  is  rear'd, 
Which  with  scars  from  his  many  fought  battles  is  sear'd  : 

Nor  country  nor  daughter  he  knows. 

But  sudden  conviction  in  quick  flashes  told, 

That  that  daughter  was  destined  to  die; 
No  longer  could  nature  the  hard  struggle  hold, 
His  grief  issued  forth  unrestrain'd,  uncontroll'd 
And  glaz'd  was  his  time-sunken  eye. 

His  daughter  is  kneeling,  and  clasping  that  form 

She  ne'er  touch'd  but  with  transport  before ; 
His  daughter  is  watching  the  thundering  storm, 
Whose  quick  flashing  lightnings  so  madly  deform 
A  face,  beaming  sunshine  no  more. 

But  how  did  that  daughter,  so  gentle  and  fair, 
Hear  the  sentence  that  doom'd  her  to  die  ? 
For  a  moment  was  heard  a  shrill  cry  of  despair  — 
For  a  moment  her  eye  gave  a  heart-moving  glare  — 
For  a  moment  her  bosom  heav'd  high. 
9 


130  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC 

It  was  but  a  moment  —  the  frenzy  was  past, 

She  trustingly  rush'd  to  his  arms, 
And  there,  as  a  flower  when  chill'd  by  the  blast, 
Reclines  on  an  oak  while  its  fury  may  last, 

On  his  bosom  she  hush'd  her  alarms. 

Not  an  eye  saw  that  scene  but  was  moistened  in  woe, 

Not  a  voice  could  a  sentence  command  ; 
Down  the  soldier's  rough  cheek  tears  of  agony  flow, 
The  sobs  of  the  maidens  rose  mournful  and  low, 
Sad  pity  wept  over  the  band. 

But  fled  was  the  hope  in  the  fair  maiden's  breast, 

From  her  father's  fond  bosom  she  rose  ; 
Stern  virtue  appear'd  in  her  manner  confest, 
She  look'd  like  a  saint  from  the  realms  of  the  blest, 
Not  a  mortal  encircled  with  woes. 

She  turn'd  from  the  group,  and  can  I  declare 

The  hope  and  the  fortitude  given, 
As  she  sunk  on  her  knees  with  a  soul  breathing  prayer, 
That  her  father  might  flourish,  of  angels  the  care, 

Till  with  glory  he  blossom'd  in  heaven  ? 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  131 

"  Oh,  comfort  him,  heaven,  when  low  in  the  dust 

My  limbs  are  inactively  laid  ! 
Oh,  comfort  him,  heaven,  and  let  him  then  trust, 
That  free  and  immortal  the  souls  of  the  just 

Are  in  beauty  and  glory  array'd." 

The  maiden  arose,  —  oh  !  I  cannot  portray 

The  devotion  that  glow'd  in  her  eye ; 
Religion's  sweet  self  in  its  light  seem'd  to  play 
With  the  mildness  of  night,  with  the  glory  of  day  — 

But  'twas  pity  that  prompted  her  sigh. 

"  My  father  !  "  —  the  chief  rais'd  his  agoniz'd  head 

With  a  gesture  of  settled  despair  — 
"  My  father  !  "  —  the  words  she  would  utter  had  fled, 
But  the  sobs  that  she  heav'd,  and  the  tears  that  she  shed, 

Told  more  than  those  words  could  declare. 

That  weakness  past  o'er,  and  the  maiden  could  say, 

"  My  father,  for  thee  I  can  die." 
The  hands  slowly  mov'd  on  their  sorrowful  way, 
But  never  again  from  that  heart-breaking  day, 
Was  a  smile  known  to  force  its  enlivening  ray 

On  the  old  chieftain's  grief-stricken  eye. 

WATERTOWN,  MASS.  IfclO. 


132 


15ALLADS.    DRAMATIC 


THE   MAIDEN   AND   THE  MARINER. 


THE  toilet's  task  was  o'er  ; 
The  satin  slipper  clasped  the  modelled  foot, 
The  white  glove  rested  on  the  snowy  arm, 
While  Ella's  heart  beat  lightly  ;  —  light  her  tread 
As  down  the  steps  with  airy  grace  she  sprang 
To  greet  the  neighboring  ball-room's  fairy  scene; 
Then  bounded  towards  her  carriage,  and  her  laugli 
Went  ringing  like  a  happy  waterfall 
Bursting  from  summer  hills. 

She  nears  the  blaze 

Of  the  saloon  where  sylphlike  movements  wait 
On  music,  as  an  echo  on  its  sound  ; 
Where  eyes  like  midnight  stars  shine  joyously 
From  out  the  firmament  of  heart  and  mind. 

The  carriage  stops.    Hark  !  a  low  plaintive  voice ! 
"Pity,"  it  said,  "the  shipwreck'd  mariner, 
Who  has  no  friend,  no  country,  and  no  home." 


AND    OTHER    SKETCHES.  133 

"  Back,  fellow  !  "  one  exclaimed,  "  away,  away  !  " 
The  vagrant  was  thrust  off.     With  flowing  robes, 
White  as  the  garb  a  new-made  spirit  wears, 
Fair  Ella  glided  by.     Again  that  voice  !  — 
She  paused.     A  shade  came  o'er  her  sunny  brow 
Soft  as  morn's  vapor  on  a  silver  stream. 
"  That  voice  of  woe  will  haunt  my  thoughts,"  she  said, 
"  Will  mingle  with  the  dance  discordantly, 
Should  I  still  coldly  turn  mine  ear  away. 
And  our  dear  William  is  a  sailor  too ! 
What  if  he  need  a  pitying  stranger's  aid, 
Young  rebel  from  our  hearth  ?     God  bless  the  boy  !  " 
And  here  she  heaved  a  sister's  natural  sigh, 
And  turning  to  the  mariner  she  ask'd, — 
"  Stranger,  what  would'st  thou  1    Can  I  aid  thy  need  ?  " 
Bright  fell  the  light  upon  the  seaman's  coarse 
And  tattered  garments,  —  brightly  too  it  shone 
On  Ella's  flower-wreathed  brow  and  graceful  form. 

He  paused.     Ripe  for  the  witcheries  of  the  dance, 
E'en  though  her  heart  was  touch'd  with  sympathy, 
The  maiden's  slipper'd  foot  kept  eager  time 
To  the  loud  gush  of  harmony  that  filled 
The  near  saloon,  while  her  slight  ivory  fan 
Tapped  on  her  open  palm  impatiently. 


134  BALLADS,    DRAMATIC,  ETC. 

Nearer  the  sea-worn  veteran  pressed,  and  crossed 
His  hands  upon  his  threadbare  coat,  and  bowed. 
A  moment  —  Back  he  throws  the  ragged  robe  : 

CO  ' 

And  lo  !  a  manly  form,  in  youth's  fresh  glow, 
And  laughing  eyes,  beneath  the  clustering  curls, 
That  hang  in  ripen'd  fulness  o'er  his  brow  ! 
'Tis  William,  the  gay  wanderer,  —  and  he  clasps 
The  youthful  Ella  to  his  brother  heart  ! 

1834. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING. 


THE   CONGRESSIONAL  BURYING-GROUND. 


THE  pomp  of  death  was  there  ;  — 
The  lettered  urn,  the  classic  marble  rose, 
And  coldly,  in  magnificent  repose, 

Stood  out  the  column  fair. 

The  hand  of  art  was  seen 

Throwing  the  wild  flowers  from  the  gravelled  walk ;  • 
The  sweet  wild  flowers,  —  that  hold  their  quiet  talk 

Upon  the  uncultured  green. 

And  now,  perchance,  a  bird 
Hiding  amid  the  trained  and  scattered  trees, 
Sent  forth  his  carol  on  the  scentless  breeze,  — 

But  they  were  few  I  heard. 


138  THOUGHTS    IN   JOURNEYING. 

Did  my  heart's  pulses  beat? 
And  did  mine  eye  o'erflow  with  sudden  tears, 
Such  as  gush  up  mid  memories  of  years, 

When  humbler  graves  we  meet  ? 

O 

A  humbler  grave  I  met, 
On  the  Potomac's  leafy  banks,  when  May, 
Weaving  spring  flowers,  stood  out  in  colors  gay, 

With  her  young  coronet. 

A  lonely,  nameless  grave, 

Stretching  its  length  beneath  th'  o'erarching  trees, 
Which  told  a  plaintive  story,  as  the  breeze 

Came  their  new  buds  to  wave. 

But  the  lone  turf  was  green 
As  that  which  gathers  o'er  more  honored  forms  ; 
Nor  with  more  harshness  had  the  wintry  storms 

Swept  o'er  that  woodland  scene. 

The  flower  and  springing  blade 
Looked  upward  with  their  young  and  shining  eyes, 
And  met  the  sunlight  of  the  happy  skies, 

And  that  low  turf  arrayed. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  139 

And  unchecked  birds  sang  out 
The  chorus  of  their  spring-time  jubilee;  — 
And  gentle  happiness  it  was  to  me, 

To  list  their  music-shout. 

And  to  that  stranger-grave 

O  O 

The  tribute  of  enkindling  thoughts,  the  free 
And  unbought  power  of  natural  sympathy, 
Passing,  I  sadly  gave. 

And  a  religious  spell 

On  that  lone  mound,  by  man  deserted,  rose,  — 
A  conscious  presence  from  on  high  ;  which  glows 

Not  where  the  worldly  dwell. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.  1836. 


140          THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING. 


THE   RELEASED   CONVICT'S   CELL, 

AT    THE    PHILADELPHIA    PENITENTIARY. 

WITHIN  the  prison's  massy  walls  I  stood, 
And  all  was  still.     Down  the  far  galleried  aisles 
I  gazed  —  upward  and  near  ;  no  eye  was  seen, 
No  footstep  heard,  save  a  few  flitting  guards 
Urging  with  vacant  look  their  daily  round; 
For  in  the  precincts  of  each  narrow  cell, 
Hands,  busiest  once  amid  licentious  crowds, 
Voices,  that  shouted  loudest  in  the  throng, 
Were  now  as  calm,  as  erst  the  winds  and  waves, 
When  Jesus  said,  Be  still. 

I  was  led  on 

To  where  a  convict  ten  slow  years  had  dwelt 
A  prison'd  man.     Released  that  day,  he  sought 
The  world  again.      Wide  open  stood  his  door. 
Hard  by  the  cell,  (where  for  brief  term  each  day 
He  walked  alone  to  feel  the  blessed  breeze 
Play  on  his  cheek,  or  see  the  sun-beam  dawn 
Like  a  fond  mother  on  her  erring  child,) 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  141 

There  was  a  little  spot  of  earth,  that  woke 
Within  my  breast  a  gush  of  sudden  tears. 
His  hand  had  tilled  it,  and  the  fresh  grass  grew 
Rewarding]}',  and  springing  plants  were  there, 
One  knows  not  hoic,  lifting  their  gentle  heads 
In  kind  companionship  to  that  lone  man. 

Who  can  portray  how  gladly  to  the  eye 
Of  that  past  sinner,  came  in  beauty  forth 
Those  springing  buds,  in  nature's  lavish  love  ? 
Perchance  they  led  him  back  in  healthful  thought 
To  some  green  spot,  where  in  his  early  years, 
The  wild-flower  rose,  like  him  unstained  and  free. 
Oh,  many  a  thought  swept  o'er  my  busy  mind, 
And  rny  heart  said,  God  bless  thee,  erring  one, 
Now  new-born  to  the  world  !    May  heavenly  flowers 
Spring  up  and  blossom  on  thy  purer  way ! 

A  deep,  pathetic  consciousness  I  felt 
Stirring  my  soul  in  that  forsaken  cell. 
It  seemed  the  nest  from  whence  had  flown  the  bird  ; 
Or  chrysalis,  from  whose  dark  folds  had  burst 
Th'  unfettered  wing ;  or  grave,  from  whence  the  spirit 
Wrapt  in  earth's  death-robe  long,  had  sprung  in  joy. 

Thus  be  the  door  of  mercy  oped  for  me, 
And  leaving  far  the  prison-house  of  sin, 
Thus  may  my  spirit  range. 

PHILADELPHIA,  JUNE,  183G. 


142  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


THE   MOCKING-BIRD  IN  THE   CITY. 


Brno  of  the  South  !  is  this  a  scene  to  waken 

Thy  native  notes  in  thrilling,  gushing  tone  ? 
Thy  woodland  nest  of  love  is  all  forsaken  — 
Thy  mate  alone  ! 

While  stranger-throngs  roll  by,  thy  song  is  lending 

Joy  to  the  happy,  soothings  to  the  sad  : 
O'er  my  full  heart  it  flows  with  gentle  blending, 
And  I  am  glad. 

And  /  will  sing,  though  dear  ones,  loved  and.  loving, 

Are  left  afar  in  my  sweet  nest  of  home, 
Though  from  that  nest,  with  backward  yearnings  moving, 
Onward  I  roam  ! 

And  with  heart-music  shall  my  feeble  aiding, 

Still  swell  the  note  of  human  joy  aloud ; 
Nor,  with  untrusting  soul  kind  heaven  upbraiding, 
Sigh  mid  the  crowd. 

PHILADELPHIA,  MAY  24,  1836. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  143 


THE   CITY  OF  NEW- YORK. 


ATLANTIC  city  !  brightly  art  thou  beaming, 

Throwing  thy  kindling  ray  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Enlightening  myriads  with  thy  far-spread  gleaming, 
Home  of  the  free. 

Giant  of  wealth  !  thine  arm  of  mighty  power 

Sweeps  to  thy  coffers  gold  from  distant  shores ; 
While  on  each  asking  hand  thy  Danae  shower, 
Its  treasure  pours. 

Religion's  nurse  !  on  spire  and  tower  still  flying, 

The  Christian  standard  floats  unfurled,  and  free  ; 
Never,  our  bold  forefathers'  claim  denying, 
Mind's  liberty  ! 

Favorite  of  nature!  on  thy  green  shore  dwelling, 
Bright  spring-flowers  bloom,  —  the  wild  birds  carol 

gay> 

And  the  green  ocean  laves  thy  broad  pier,  smiling 
In  noisy  play. 


144          THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING. 

Haven  of  ships !  thy  storm-tried  masts  are  standing, 
With  their  tall  foreheads  to  the  meetinor  clouds, 

o  * 

A  floating  world  —  the  billowy  world  commanding, 
With  their  tough  shrouds. 

Syren  of  pleasure!  in  thy  halls  bright  glancing, 

Youth  gaily  springs,  and  prunes  her  buoyant  wing. 
Do  purity  and  truth  the  mirth  enhancing, 
Their  chorus  bring  ? 

O,  mighty  city,  to  thy  trust  is  given 

A  moral  influence  —  a  Christian  sway  ! 
Souls  throng  thy  busy  streets  to  people  heaven,  — 
Let  them  not  stray. 

Atlantic  cities!  rouse  ye  all  from  sleeping 

Sin's  deadly  sleep,  lest  drops  of  grief  be  wrung 
From  Him  who  o'er  Judea  sadly  weeping, 
Her  death-note  sung. 

1836. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  145 


SARATOGA    LAKE. 


O'ER  Saratoga's  bright  lake  we  row, 
Bathed  in  the  light  of  the  sunset  glow  ; 
We  dip  our  oars  in  the  placid  wave, 
Our  hands  in  the  rippling  current  lave. 

There's  scarce  a  cloud  in  the  summer  blue 
Save  one  lit  up  with  a  rosy  hue, 
Like  the  smile  that  flits  o'er  a  tranquil  face, 
Lending  its  softness  a  richer  grace. 

The  shore  is  near  with  its  girdle  green  ; 
The  dim-eyed  mountains  look  far  between  ; 
The  twittering  bird  is  heard  on  the  bough, 
And  the  shining  fish  are  chased  by  our  prow. 

Light  jests  fall  sportive  from  hearts  at  ease, 
As  buds  that  burst  in  the  spring's  warm  breeze, 
And  our  laugh  o'er  the  silent  water  swells, 
Like  fountain  music  in  echoing  dells. 
10 


146          THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING. 

No  traitor-tears  for  the  absent  rise, 

Though  deep  in  our  hearts  their  image  lies, 

But  a  light  from  the  thought  of  their  love  upsprings, 

Like  that  which  is  ushered  by  angel-wings. 

O,  Saratoga's  fair  lake,  adieu, 

With  thy  placid  waves  and  thy  sky  of  blue ! 

Soft  thoughts  arise  with  thy  evening  ray, 

They  are  thoughts  of  our  home  —  away  !  —  away  ! 

SARATOGA,  JULY  11,  1836. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


MUSIC  ON   THE  CANAL. 


I  WAS  weary  with  the  day-light, 

I  was  weary  with  the  shade, 
And  my  heart  became  still  sadder, 

As  the  stars  their  light  betrayed  ; 
I  sickened  at  the  ripple, 

As  the  lazy  boat  went  on, 
And  felt  as  though  a  friend  was  lost 

When  the  twilight  ray  was  gone. 

The  meadows  in  a  fire-fly  glow, 

Looked  gay  to  happy  eyes  ; 
To  me  they  beamed  but  mournfully, 

My  heart  was  cold  with  sighs. 
They  seemed,  indeed,  like  summer  friends; 

Alas,  no  warmth  had  they ! 
I  turned  in  sorrow  from  their  glare, 

Impatient  turned  away. 


148  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 

And  tear-drops  gathered  in  my  eyes, 

And  rolled  upon  my  cheek, 
And  when  the  voice  of  mirth  was  heard, 

I  had  no  heart  to  speak. 
I  longed  to  press  my  children 

To  my  sad  and  homesick  breast, 
And  feel  the  constant  hand  of  love 

Caressing  and  carest. 

And  slowly  went  my  languid  pulse 

As  the  slow  canal  boat  goes ; 
And  I  felt  the  pain  of  weariness, 

And  sigh'd  for  home's  repose; 
And  laughter  seemed  a  mockery, 

And  joy  a  fleeting  breath, 
And  life  a  dark  volcanic  crust 

That  crumbles  over  death. 

But  a  strain  of  sweetest  melody 

Arose  upon  my  ear, 
The  blessed  sound  of  woman's  voice, 

That  angels  love  to  hear  ! 
And  manly  strains  of  tenderness 

Were  mingled  with  the  song, 
A  father's  with  his  daughter's  notes,  — 

The  gentle  with  the  strong. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  149 

And  my  thoughts  began  to  soften 

Like  snows  when  waters  fall, 
And  open,  as  the  frost-closed  buds 

When  spring's  young  breezes  call ; 
While  to  my  faint  and  weary  soul 

A  better  hope  was  given, 
And  all  once  more  was  bright  with  faith, 

'Twixt  heart,  and  earth,  and  Heaven. 

MOHAWK  RIVER,  N.  Y. 


150  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


THE   WEST-POINT   EAGLE. 

SUGGESTED    BY    AN    ACTUAL    OCCURRENCE. 


'T  is  Sabbath  morning;  o'er  the  tented  field, 

Wild  mountain,  rock,  and  grove,  the  silence  broods 

Which  nature  loves.     On  the  fir-spreading  green, 

The  tread  of  martial  feet  is  hushed,  or  light ; 

A  serious  grace  chastens  the  soldier's  eye. 

The  clustered  tents  stand  in  still  sunshine,  white 

To  the  lone  hill-top  gazer,  as  the  flocks 

That  wait  the  shepherd's  call.     The  Hudson  sleeps; 

The  sloop's  trim  sail  flaps  on  her  breezeless  way, 

And  gentle  ripples  swell  and  die  unheard. 

In  rugged  quietness  Fort  Putnam's  wall 

Ascends ;  the  Crow's  Nest  pillows  the  high  clouds. 

Ranges  of  nearer  hills  heave  up  to  heaven 

More  fixed  and  clear,  while  to  their  wooded  sides 

Green  shrubs  reposing  cling.     A  glittering  light 

Crowns  Kosciusko's  column,  like  his  fame. 


THOUGHTS    IN   JOURNEYING.  151 

And  listen,  on  the  rocks  below  soft  fall 
Still  waters,  like  the  ceaseless  beat  the  heart 
Gives  to  its  country's  champions. 

But  behold, 

From  yonder  height  an  eagle  presses  on  ! 
Hither  he  bends,  with  pinions  spread,  arid  cuts 
The  azure  sky  ;  and  now  above  the  plain 
He  wheels,  and  now  the  rushing  of  his  wing 
Is  heard  careering  o'er  the  silent  tents. 
Like  a  keen  sentinel  his  quick  eye  darts 
A  glance  around,  then  with  majestic  sweep 
He  cleaves  the  air,  and  o'er  the  mountain's  crest 
Fades  his  dark  form. 

Why  com'st  thou,  noble  bird  ? 
To  note  if  all  is  well  with  those  who  hail 
Thee  as  their  emblem  ? 

Loyal  youths  !  Cadets  ! 

Look  ye  to  this  ;  slight  not  the  sacred  sign  ; 
But  when  the  eagle  of  your  country  comes, 
Flapping  his  bold  wing  on  your  listening  ear, 
Still  may  he  find  you  thus,  as  on  this  morn  ; 
A  Sabbath  calmness  resting  on  your  souls, 
And  strength,  unboasting,  in  each  God-nerved  arm. 

WEST  POINT,  JUNE,  1836. 


152  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


TRENTON    FALLS,    NEW-YORK. 


MY  God, 

I  thank  thee  for  this  wondrous  birth  of  joy, 
Unfelt  and  unimagined  till  this  hour ! 

Was't  not  enough  that  thou  didst  tinge  the  rose 
With  delicate  glow,  —  throw  silvery  whiteness  o'er 
The  lily's  cup  —  touch  the  bright  sea-shell,  like 
A  spirit's  blush,  and  weave  a  whisper  through 
Its  spiral  folds,  like  murmuring  love-notes  soft,  — 
Arch  the  rich  rainbow  into  mingled  hues, 
More  beautiful  in  contrast  with  heaven's  blue, 
O'er  western  skies  throw  tints  of  gracious  light,  — 
Smooth  down  the  river  with  a  mirror's  truth, 
And  wrap  around  the  fresh  and  teeming  earth 
Its  lovely  drapery  of  chastened  green  ? 
Was't  not  enough  for  me,  that  from  my  youth 
Mine  eyes  have  bathed  in  beauty,  banquetted 
On  lovely  sights,  and  listened  to  sweet  sounds  ? 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  153 

Grateful  was  I  for  this ;  but  now  I  feel 
The  beauty  of  the  awful  and  sublime ; 
My  soul  leaps  upward  to  these  towering  cliffs, 
And  onward  with  the  stream  ! 

Father  of  nature, 

Enlarge  my  spirit  for  this  mighty  gift  ! 
When  I  consorted  with  the  buds  and  flowers. 
Heard  the  full  choir  of  woodland  melody, 
Gazed  up  in  reverie,  on  placid  skies, 
Or  wandered  by  the  pure  meandering  stream, 
Or  prayed  beneath  the  bright-eyed  lights  of  heaven, 
Looking  serene  from  out  their  azure  home, 
Or  blest  the  moonlight,  as  it  burst  in  joy, 
Like  youthful  thoughts,  enkindling  hill  and  dale, 
I  felt  as  if  a  mother's  gentle  voice 
Called  on  her  child  to  acts  of  grateful  love. 
But  now  that  I  have  communed  with  the  vast, 
Seen  the  veil  rent  from  nature's  stormy  shrine, 
Heard  her  wild  lessons  of  magnificence 
In  cataract  voices,  mid  the  echoing  rocks, 
I  feel  a  louder  call  upon  my  soul  — 
A  trumpet-sound  ;  —  and  as  a  soldier  girds 
Himself  for  war,  so  will  I  gird  my  thoughts 
For  conquest  o'er  the  world  ! 

1836. 


154  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


SWEET    AUBURN. 


MOUNT     AUBURN    CEMETERY. 


[The  names  referred  to  were  given  by  the  family  of  the 
Hon.  Elbridge  Gerry.] 

SWEET  AUBURN  !  when  a  gay  and  happy  child, 
Playing  with  nature  like  a  favorite  toy, 
I  loved  thy  bowers,  —  thy  bowers  so  distant  now  ! 
Nine  summers  only  on  my  eyes  had  smiled, 
When  to  thy  wilds,  all  unaccompanied, 
Frequent  I  strayed,  slighting  more  cultured  paths, 
Where  glowed,  mid  wary  steps,  the  weeded  flowers. 

I  sought  thy  mossy  banks  —  raised  a  green  throne, 
And  wielding  there  the  willow's  flexile  twig, 
Sang  idle  songs,  such  as  ring  wildly  forth 
In  carol  light  or  sad  from  untried  hearts. 

To  Woody  Dell  I  strayed ;  not  then  the  voice  * 
Which  since,  in  manly  eloquence,  has  woke 


*  Judge  Story 'Sj  at  the  consecration  of  the  ground. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  155 

Its  echoes,  met  my  ear,  but  the  gay  birds 
Sent  up  clear  notes  of  joy  from  bough  to  bough, 
Unconscious,  that  those  notes  in  after  years 
Would  change  to  funeral  hymns. 

I  climbed  thy  hill, 

Whose  noble  height  look'd  down  o'er  art  and  nature. 
The  city's  spires  stood  out,  bathed  in  the  glow 
Of  distant  sunlight,  while  the  gentle  Charles 
Lay  like  a  nursing  child  outstretched  in  joy, 
Soft  murmuring,  beneath  the  waving  boughs. 

Then  with  a  light  but  not  unthinking  mind, 
A  glancing  eye,  and  busy  foot,  descending 
The  wooded  Hill,  I  sought  the  Giant's  Grave, 
On  whose  extended  mound  the  wild  flowers  rose. 
The  soft  anemone  stood  peeping  there, 
To  woodland  gaze  the  gentle  snow-drop's  peer, 
And  violets  that  owe  their  witching  charm 
To  kindred  with  an  azure  eye,  —  and  heaven's. 

And  can  this  be  the  same,  the  steady  hand 
That  presses  now  in  midnight  thought  my  brow, 
Beneath  the  star-beam  of  a  Southern  sky, 
That  with  its  small  and  twining  fingers  loved 
To  cull  fresh  flowers  on  Auburn's  leafy  slopes? 

Thou,  too,  how  changed,  sweet  Auburn  !  then  of  life, 
Now  of  the  grave,  thou  tell'st — thy  bloom  is  mourning! 


156  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 

And  with  the  wild  bird's  song  the  sob  of  woe 
Mingles  most  sad. 

I  ask  no  monument, 

Or  lettered  urn,  within  thy  classic  shades. 
Be  thou  to  me  as  in  my  childish  days 
Clustered  all  o'er  with  bright  imaginings. 
Though  solemn  words  have  sanctified  thy  Dell, 
Linking  its  grassy  clods  with  thoughts  of  heaven, 
Though  with  fastidious  taste  affection's  hand 
Has  piled  the  costly  marble  on  thy  hills, 
And  carved  it  in  thy  vales;  though  the  great  dead, 
Great  in  the  intellect  that  cannot  die, 
Have  made  their  bed  with  thee,  to  me  thou  art 
Sweet  Auburn,  and  I  love  thee  as  the  nest 
From  whence  I  joyed  to  plume  my  youthful  wings 
And  soar  to  man's  high  nature  from  the  child's. 

/  ask  no  monument  within  thy  shades. 
The  rustling  branches  of  our  Southern  groves 
Shall  soothe  my  sleep  of  death,  kindly  as  winds 
That  circle  through  thy  famed  and  cultur'd  bow'rs ; 
The  Southern  flower  spring  up  as  soft  and  pure 
As  thine ;  bright  Southern  birds  a  requiem  pour 
As  rich  and  mournful  as  thy  plumed  quire; 
And  Southern  hearts,  perchance  with  fervency, 
Breathe  prayers  and  blessings  on  my  humbler  grave. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1836. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  157 


WASHINGTON'S    ELM   AT   CAMBRIDGE. 

MUCH  hast  thou  seen,  brave  tree, 

Since  thy  young  holiday  of  early  leaf, 
When  thy  slight  branches  struggled  to  be  free, 

And  thy  pale  root  was  brief! 

More  than  the  common  share 

Has  fallen  to  thy  wondrous  lot,  I  guess, 

Great  antiquarian  of  an  age  most  rare, 
Of  trial,  hope,  success  ! 

Take  me  among  thy  boughs, 

Good  tree ;  I  to  thy  vast  experience  soar  ! 
More  than  book  knowledge  can  thy  whisperings  rouse, 

A  sterner,  richer  lore  ! 

I  hear  an  answering  tone 

In  the  long  waving  of  thine  aged  limbs, 
And  the  wind's  low  and  softly  uttered  moan, 

Like  spirits'  midnight  hymns. 


158          THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING. 

Did  not  the  Indian's  dart, 

When  roving  wild,  make  thy  young  trunk  its  aim? 
And  some  brown  girl,  beneath  thy  branches,  start 

The  fire-fly  flame  ? 

Dost  thou  remember,  tree, 

Harvard's  J»\><  sons?    Came  they  beneath  thy  boughs 
With  study  pale  — or  wandering  carelessly, 

Dream  of  fair  maiden's  vows? 

And  does  not  every  leaf 

Stir  with  the  strong  remembrances  of  one, 
The  immortal  —  the  unconquerable  chief  — 

Thine  own  —  thy  Washington? 

To  think  that  he  did  lay 

His  weary  limbs  beneath  thy  very  shade, — 
That  here  he  mused,  and  planned,  and  thought  by  day  ; 

That  here  he  nightly  prayed  ! 

To  think  that  here  his  soul 

Writhed  in  some  stirring  of  war's  agony  — 
Or  with  a  strong,  prophetic,  deep  control 

Looked  through  to  victory  ! 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  159 

Why,  'tis  a  hallowed  spot ! 

Here  for  my  country  a  new  pulse  beats  high, 
And  woman's  feeble  nature  all  forgot, 

Here  too  even  I  could  die. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.  1836. 


160  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


THOUGHTS 

ON    PASSING    PLATTSBURG,    ON    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


HUSH  !  this  is  sacred  ground, 

Sacred  the  wave  ; 
Here  were  true  warriors  found, 

Here  is  their  grave  ! 
Blue  mountains  dimly  smile, 
Clusters  each  little  isle, 
Passing  clouds  pause  awhile 

Over  the  brave ! 

Foemen  sleeps  near  the  foe 

Silent  and  cold  ! 
Passions  all  hushed  below,  — 

Tales  that  are  told  !  — 
Flowers  the  green  sod  have  crowned, 
Summer  birds  softly  sound, 
Murmur  the  waves  around 

"  Peace  to  the  bold  !  " 

LAKE  CUAMPLAIN,  1836. 


THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING.  1G1 


TO    THE    ST.   LAWRENCE. 


RIVER  of  thousand  isles  !  in  graceful  glee 
Has  nature  thrown  around  her  gems  of  green. 
Where  summer  skies  look  downward  joyfully, 
And  sheltering  trees  erect  their  wavy  screen, 
And  waters  flow,  laving  each  emerald  shrine, 
While  nature  dwells,  lone,  silent  and  divine. 

Bird  calls  to  bird  from  out  these  islets  fair, 
Unheard  man's  death  gun,  and  unfelt  his  snare. 
And  flowers  spring  up,  nor  fear  a  cultured  doom, 
Bright  families  of  beauty  and  perfume. 
Farewell !  a  first,  last  gaze,  I  take  —  a  parting  spell  ; 
Thou'rt  woven  round  my  heart  —  and  now,  farewell  ! 

STEAMBOAT,  1836. 


11 


1G2  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


TO    THE    URSULINES. 


O  PURE  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  sky  above  —  your  quiet  bark 

By  soft  winds  blest ! 

Still  toil  in  duty  and  commune  with  Heaven, 

World-weaned  and  free  ; 
God  to  his  humblest  creatures  room  has  given 

And  space  to  be. 

Space  for  the  eagle  in  the  vaulted  sky 

To  plume  his  wing  — 
Space  for  the  ring-dove  by  her  young  to  lie, 

And  softly  sing. 

Space  for  the  sun-flower,  bright  with  yellow  glow 

To  court  the  sky  — 
Space  for  the  violet,  where  the  wild  woods  grow, 

To  live  and  die. 


THOUGHTS    IN   JOURNEYING.  163 

Space  for  the  ocean,  in  its  giant  might, 

To  swell  and  rave  — 
Space  for  the  river,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

Where  green  banks  wave. 

Space  for  the  sun  to  tread  his  path  in  might, 

And  golden  pride  — 
Space  for  the  glow-worm,  calling,  by  her  light, 

Love  to  her  side. 

Then  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  skies  above,  and  your  still  bark 

By  kind  winds  blest. 

QUEBEC,  LOWER  CANADA,  1836. 


164  THOUGHTS    IN    JOURNEYING. 


RETURN   TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 


THE  martin's  nest!  the  simple  nest! 

I  see  it  swinging  high, 
Just  as  it  stood  in  distant  years, 

Above  my  gazing  eye  ; 
But  many  a  bird  has  plumed  its  wing, 

And  lightly  flown  away, 
Or  drooped  his  little  head  in  death, 

Since  that  —  my  youthful  day  ! 

The  woodland  stream  !  the  pebbly  stream  ! 

It  gaily  flows  along, 
As  once  it  did  when  by  its  side 

I  sang  my  merry  song. 
But  many  a  wave  has  roll'd  afar, 

Beneath  the  summer  cloud, 
Since  by  its  bank  I  idly  pour'd 

My  childish  song  aloud. 


THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING.          165 

The  sweet-brier  rose  !  the  way-side  rose  ! 

Still  spreads  its  fragrant  arms, 
Where  graciously  to  passing  eyes 

It  gave  its  simple  charms  ; 
But  many  a  perfumed  breeze  has  passed, 

And  many  a  blossom  fair, 
Since  with  a  careless  heart  I  twined 

Its  green  wreaths  in  my  hair. 

The  barberry  bush  !  the  poor  man's  bush  ! 

Its  yellow  blossoms  hang 
As  erst,  where  by  the  grassy  lane 

Along  I  lightly  sprang; 
But  many  a  flower  has  come  and  gone, 

And  scarlet  berry  shone, 
Since  I,  a  school-girl  in  its  path, 

In  rustic  dance  have  flown. 

WATERTOWN,  MASS.  1812. 


166  THOUGHTS    IN   JOURNEYING. 


ANSWER 

TO    THE    CHARGE    OF    LOVING    THE    LAND    OF    MY    ADOPTION 
MORE    THAN    THE    HOME    OF    MY    BIRTH. 


GUILTY,  yes,  guilty.  —  Faint  on  memory's  height 
Linger  the  beams  to  young  experience  dear, 

Fading  beneath  the  glow  of  tender  light 

That  shines  in  kindly  radiance  o'er  me  here. 

I  sigh  not  for  New  England's  orchard  store, 
Her  cultur'd  meadows,  or  her  gurgling  rills  ; 

I  ask  no  musings  by  her  rocky  shore, 

Nor  summer  rambles  on  her  sloping  hills. 

My  heart  is  here.     The  lowland  scenes  to  me 

Are  fraught  with  all  that  makes  life  worth  my  care 

A  thousand  clustering  joys  spring  buoyantly 
And  throw  their  branches  on  my  being's  air. 


THOUGHTS  IN  JOURNEYING.  167 

Home,  where  young  faces  glow  like  living  flowers, 
And  time's  intruding  footsteps  half  arrest ; 

Protecting  arms,  that  guard  my  sunny  bowers 
With  gentle  care  that  blesses  to  be  blest. 

Friends  —  dear  as  ever  were  the  friends  of  yore  — 
Spontaneous  —  bursting  in  unselfish  bloom. — 

I  had  no  sunshine  on  their  lot  to  pour, 

And  yet  they  gave  the  stranger  sweet  perfume. 

Religion  —  for  to  God  unfettered  swells 

Soft  hymns,  pure  prayers  within  my  chosen  fane, 

While  on  my  household  altar  safely  dwells 
The  incense  kindled  to  his  sacred  name. 

Forgive  the  wanderer,  then,  who  thus  beguil'd, 
Turns  from  her  cradle  by  New-England's  side, 

And  having  there  paid  reverence  as  a  child, 
Clings  here  to  Carolina  as  a  bride. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C. 


HYMNS 


HYMNS. 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SABBATH. 


WE  bless  thee  for  this  sacred  day, 
Thou,  who  hast  every  blessing  given, 
Which  sends  the  dreams  of  earth  away, 
And  yields  a  glimpse  of  opening  heaven. 

Rich  day  of  holy,  thoughtful  rest ! 
May  we  improve  thy  calm  repose, 
And  in  God's  service  truly  bless'd, 
Forget  the  world,  its  joys  and  woes. 

Lord,  may  thy  truth,  upon  the  heart 
Now  fall  and  dwell,  as  heavenly  dew, 
And  flowers  of  grace  in  freshness  start, 
Where  once  the  weeds  of  error  crew. 


172  HYMNS. 

May  prayer  now  lift  her  sacred  wings, 
Contented  with  that  aim  alone, 
Which  bears  her  to  the  King  of  Kings, 
And  rests  her  at  his  sheltering  throne. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1821. 


IIl'MNS.  173 


PATIENCE. 


'T  is  wise  to  crush  the  impatient  thought, 
And  mould  the  heart  to  gentleness  ; 

Looking  with  calm,  unclouded  eyes, 
We  meet  a  blessing  while  we  bless. 

'T  is  wise  to  crush  the  angry  word, 
And  bid  our  kindly  answers  fall 

Like  leaves  around  a  summer  bower, 
When  sudden  breezes  harshly  call. 

How  patiently  the  Deity 

In  all  his  earthly  work  appears; 

Atom  with  atom  softly  blends, 
And  quietly  each  fabric  rears  ! 

And  Christ  was  patient  — mild  in  death, 
To  this  great  virtue  nobly  true  ; 

E'en  for  his  foes,  the  prayer  was  heard, 
"  Forgive !  they  know  not  what  they  do." 


174  HYMNS. 

Then  let  us  sit  at  Jesus'  feet 

With  passion's  standard  closely  furl'd, 

And  listen,  as  he  talks  of  love 
And  patience  to  a  restless  world. 

And  wait,  through  life's  dim  darkling  night, 
Though  faint  should  beam  hope's  flickering  ray, 

Till  Faith  shines  slowly  from  afar, 
And  brightens  to  eternal  day. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1830. 


175 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


MARK  yon  rich  cloud,  its  hues  so  bright, 
Ting'd  with  the  warm  sun's  setting  ray  ; 
Soon  will  the  sable  brow  of  night 
Scowl  all  those  golden  hues  away. 

Mark  yon  soft  sea,  its  placid  rest, 
The  gentle  curling  of  that  wave  ; 
Soon  shall  the  ponderous  billow's  breast 

Raise  on  that  sea,  a  gloomy  grave. 

» 

Like  these,  alas,  are  mortal  joys ! 

When  in  those  joys  we  rest  secure, 

Some  stroke  of  fate  the  charm  destroys,  — 

That  stroke  is  Heaven's  —  oh  hush!  endure. 

SAVANNAH,  GA.  1811. 


176  HYMNS. 


THE  ORPHAN'S   ANNUAL  HYMN. 


[Written  for  the  Fifty-eighth  Anniversary  of  the  Orphan-Hou.- 
Charleston,  S.  C.  1847.] 

BROTHERS  !  sisters !  we  are  meeting 

On  this  day,  a  grateful  throng, 
To  enjoy  the  heart-felt  greeting, 

And  pour  forth  our  annual  song. 
Thee  we  hail  our  noble  city, 

Fostered  kindly  on  thy  breast, 
Nurtured  by  thy  love  and  pity, 

See  thine  Orphan  Children  rest. 

Patrons,  hail !  with  hearts  untiring, 

Naught  can  bid  your  labor  cease, 
No  reward  or  price  desiring, 

Save  our  welfare,  joy  and  peace. 
Teachers,  hail  !  with  daily  duty, 

You  have  urged  to  learning's  strife, 
Throwing  over  toil  a  beauty, 

Showing  us  the  worth  of  life. 


HYMNS.  177 


Christ,  all  hail !  for  higher  soaring, 

Thee  we  find  our  Saviour-friend, 
Sacred  light  forever  pouring 

On  the  heaven  to  which  we  tend. 
God,  Our  Father  !  hear  us  raising 

Our  young  voices  up  to  thee  ! 
May  thy  Spirit  aid  our  praising 

Through  a  long  eternity. 


12 


178  HYMNS. 


ORPHAN'S    HYMN. 


[For  the  Annual  Celebration  of  the  Asylum  at  Savannah,  Ga.  1311   ] 

O  THOU,  who  hear'st  our  orphan  sighs, 
When  lowly  at  thy  throne  we  bend, 

Let  this  our  happier  hymn  arise, 
And  to  thy  mercy-seat  ascend. 


Our  infant  hours  began  in  gloom  ; 

No  ray  of  worldly  joy  was  near  ; 
Cold  want  destroyed  our  early  bloom, 

Pale  sorrow  called  our  early  tear. 

But,  Charity,  thy  genial  light 

Burst  thro'  the  shade,  and  cheer'd  our  way, 
And,  kindlier  still,  revealed  to  sight 

The  glories  of  the  Gospel  day. 


HYMNS.  179 

Great  God,  for  those  whose  fostering  love 
Has  gently  nurtur'd  our  young  powers, 

We  pray  that  blessings  from  above 
May  lightly  wing  their  earthly  hours. 

And  when  the  solemn  day  draws  near, 
That  calls  our  rescued  souls  to  thee, 

Together  may  we  all  appear, 
And  mingle  in  eternity. 


180  HYMNS. 


TEMPTATION   RESISTED. 


MY  soul  !  the  storm  is  near  ; 

Temptation  's  on  the  wave, 
And  passion's  surges  dashing  drear, 

In  threatening  fury  rave. 

Look  on  —  fear  not  —  a  power 
Stronger  than  these  is  nigh, 

And  in  this  overwhelming  hour, 
Its  wrestling  strength  will  try. 

And  if  thou  seek'st  for  aid, 

Religion's  ark  shall  rest 
In  fair  proportions,  fitly  laid, 

Upon  thy  harass'd  breast. 

Each  pure  and  holy  thought, 
In  earth's  wild  deluge  driven, 

Shall  to  this  ark  of  peace  be  brought, 
With  pinions  plumed  for  Heaven. 


181 


And  hope  shall  upward  spring 
With  faith,  the  child  of  care, 

Shaking  earth's  waters  from  their  wing, 
And  come  and  nestle  there. 

Look  now,  —  the  storm  has  past ; 

And  see,  o'er  yonder  sky, 
An  arch  of  peaceful  glory  cast, 

While  clouds  and  darkness  fly. 

WATERTOWX,  MASS.  1817. 


182  HYMNS. 


ST.   LUKE,   IX. 


There  came  a  cloud,  and  overshadowed  them  ;  and  they  feared  as 
they  entered  into  the  cloud.  And  there  came  a  voice  out  of  the 
cloud,  saying,  This  is  my  beloved  Son :  hear  him. 

A  CLOUD  flits  o'er  the  youthful  brow, 
And  grief's  first  shadowings  veil  it  now  : 
But,  hark  !  within  its  misty  wreaths, 
A  tone  of  heavenly  mercy  breathes, 

"  'T  is  my  beloved  Son  :  hear  him." 

A  cloud  hangs  o'er  yon  manly  form, 
While  buffeting  misfortune's  storm, 
A  wreck,  his  earthly  treasure  lies  — 
But  ah !  a  voice  in  mercy  cries, 

"  'Tis  my  beloved  Son  :  hear  him." 

Wrapt  in  her  sorrowing  sable  veil, 
Sits  the  young  widow,  sad  and  pale  ; 
Dense  is  the  cloud,  that  round  her  dwells.  — 
But  hark  !  the  heavenly  chorus  swells, 
"  'T  is  my  beloved  Son  ;  hear  him." 


HYMNS. 

A  cloud  is  on  the  sinner's  soul, 
Deep,  deep,  the  murky  volumes  roll ; 
lie  gropes,  unaided  and  alone, 
Until  he  hears  the  welcome  tone, 

"  'T  is  my  beloved  Son  :  hear  him." 

Above  the  grave-yard's  grassy  breast, 
Funereal  shadows  love  to  rest, 
But  to  the  heart  well  taught  of  Heaven, 
A  light  from  these  rich  words  is  given, 
"  'T  is  my  beloved  Son  :  hear  him." 

In  Heaven  those  clouds  will  roll  away  — 
Unbroken  light,  unshadowed  day, 
Shall  burst  upon  the  gazing  eye, 
And  seraph  voices  raise  the  cry, 

"  'T  is  God's  beloved  Son  :  hear  him." 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1826. 


183 


184  HYMNS. 


GOD    OUR   FATHER. 


Is  there  a  lone  and  dreary  hour 

When  wordly  pleasures  lost  their  power  ? 

My  Father  !  let  me  turn  to  thee, 

And  set  each  thought  of  darkness  free. 

Is  there  a  time  of  racking  grief, 
Which  scorns  the  prospect  of  relief?  — 
My  Father  !  break  the  cheerless  gloom 
And  bid  my  heart  its  calm  resume. 

Is  there  an  hour  of  perce  and  joy, 
When  hope  is  all  my  soul's  employ?  — 
My  Father  !  still  my  hopes  will  roam, 
Until  they  rest  with  Thee  their  home. 

The  noon-tide  blaze,  the  midnight  scene, 
The  dawn  or  twilight's  sweet  serene, 
The  glow  of  life,  the  dying  hour, 
Shall  own  my  Father's  grace  and  power. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1821. 


TEMPERANCE  SONGS,  &c. 


TEMPERANCE    SONGS,   (fee. 


COME,  SIGN   THE  VOW. 


Air  —  "God  save  the  King." 

COME,  sign  the  Temperance  pledge, 
Thou  on  life's  tottering  edge, 

Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 
What  though  thy  hair  be  gray, 
Languid  thy  pulses  play, 
Give  us  thy  parting  day, 

Quick,  sign  the  vow. 

Manhood,  with  sinewy  form, 
Breasting  the  hard  world's  storm, 
Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 


188  TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC. 

Here  dry  a  wife's  wild  tears, 
Here  hush  thy  children's  fears, 
Here  bless  thy  coming  years, 
Now  sign  the  vow. 

Childhood,  with  earnest  glance, 
Hither  thy  steps  advance, 

Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 
Haste,  thy  young  promise  bring, 
Pure,  simple  offering, 
Fresh  from  th'  Eternal  Spring, 

Now  sign  the  vow. 

Sinner,  of  many  cares, 
Wilder'd  with  doubts  and  snares, 

Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 
Give  us  thy  trembling  hand, 
Soon  shall  foul  habit's  band 
Yield  like  an  osier  wand, 

Come,  sign  the  vow. 

Maiden,  untouched  by  care, 
Lovely,  and  fresh  and  fair, 
Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 


TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC.  189 

Turn  here  thy  spa  kling  eye, 
Lend  us  thy  cheek's  soft  dye, 
Bring  all  thy  witchery, 
Now  sign  the  vow. 

Youth,  with  thy  upward  look, 
Which  not  a  stain  can  brook, 

Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 
On,  for  thy  country's  weal, 
On,  at  dear  home's  appeal, 
On,  for  thy  soul  a  seal, 

Come,  sign  the  vow  ! 


190  TEMPERAN'CE  SONGS,  ETC. 


THE  FORT  MOULTRIE  TEMPERANCE  FLAG. 


Tune  —  "  Come,  join  the  Teetotallers." 

COME,  plant  the  Temperance  Standard,  boys. 

On  old  Fort  Moultrie's  wall ! 
With  hand  and  heart,  with  word  and  deed, 

Obey  the  gallant  call. 
O,  that  will  be  joyful, 

When  the  Temperance  Flag's  unfurled; 
The  waves  shall  swell,  and  the  breeze  shall  te!! 

That  the  Temperance  Flag's  unfurled  ! 

No  wife  shall  weep  heart-broken,  boys, 

Or  stand  with  mute  despair, 
And  ask  the  earth  to  cover  her, 

When  that  floats  on  the  air  ! 


TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC.  191 

O,  that  will  be  joyful, 

When  wives  shall  weep  no  more  ;  — 
The  waves  shall  swell,  and  the  breeze  shall  tell, 

That  wives  shall  weep  no  more  ! 

No  hungry,  pining  infant,  boys, 

Shall  learn  to  curse  our  name  ; 
To  our  white  flag  their  eyes  shall  turn, 

And  love's  protection  claim. 
O,  that  will  be  joyful, 

When  childhood  pines  no  more  ;  — 
The  waves  shall  swell,  and  the  breeze  shall  tell, 

That  childhood  pines  no  more  ! 

Our  sisters'  cheeks  not  then  will  blush 

Beneath  their  burning  tears, 
Our  fathers'  steps  will  softly  tread 

The  sloping  vale  of  years. 
O,  that  will  be  joyful, 

When  friends  shall  blush  no  more;  — 
The  waves  shall  swell,  and  the  breeze  shall  tell, 

That  friends  will  blush  no  more  ! 

And  should  our  moral  Flag-staff,  boys, 

On  the  ramparts  chance  to  fall, 
May  some  Temperance  Jasper  forward  spring, 

And  plant  it  on  the  wall  ! 


192  TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC. 

O,  that  will  be  joyful, 

When  Temperance  Jaspers  rise,  — 
The  waves  shall  swell,  and  the  breeze  shall  tell, 

When  Temperance  Jaspers  rise! 

SULLIVAN'S  ISLAND,  184G. 


NOTE.  —  In  the  beginning  of  the  action  at  Fort  Moultrie,  June  23, 
1776,  the  flag-staff  of  the  American  troops  was  shot  away.  Ser 
geant  Jasper,  of  the  grenadiers,  immediately  jumped  on  the  beach, 
took  up  the  flag,  and  fastened  it  on  a  sponge-staff.  With  it  in  his 
hand  he  mounted  the  merlon,  and  though  the  ships  were  directing 
their  incessant  broadsides  at  the  spot,  he  deliberately  fixed  it. 

Ramsay's  History  of  South  Carolina. 


TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC.  193 


WHAT   WOKE  ME   FROM  MY  DREAM? 


I  SLEPT.     From  yonder  mansion's  glittering  hall 
Arose  rich  music  ;   on  my  dream  it  fell, 

As  ocean-murmurs  in  their  slumberous  call 
Within  the  bosom  of  a  sleeping  shell. 

I  saw  the  glancing  foot,  the  rounded  arm, 

The  eye's  soft  raising,  and  the  shadowy  curl ; 

The  modest,  yielding,  half-reluctant  charm, 
The  meek  luxuriance  of  the  graceful  girl. 

I  saw  her  partner's  deferential  gaze, 

The  chastened  gentleness  of  manly  pride, 

The  offered  hand,  that,  through  the  dance's  maze, 
Seemed  made  to  lead,  to  cherish,  and  to  guide. 

The  sight  was  beautiful,  nor  wrong  to  me.  — 
Thus,  thought  I,  God  doth  deck  the  lily  fair, 

Tinges  the  foliage  on  the  stalworth  tree, 

And  wakes  gay  carols  through  the  summer  air. 
13 


194  TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC. 

But  hark !  a  cry  comes  o'er  my  gentle  sleep,  — 
Wild  maniac  yelling  and  the  vulgar  song ; 

The  bacchanalian  shout,  the  curses  deep, 
The  drunken  revel  of  that  manly  throng  ! 

Once,  my  loved  city,  on  thy  sandy  shore, 

The  red  man's  war-cry  broke  the  sleeper's  rest ; 

And  the  gaunt  wolf,  with  hunger-baited  roar, 
Scared  the  young  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 

'T  was  better  thus  ;  — better  the  savage  yell, 
Softer  the  wolf-howl  breaking  slumber's  dream, 

Than  on  the  ear  of  night,  with  orgies  fell, 

The  polished  revellers'  mad  and  brutish  scream. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1845. 


TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC.  195 


TEMPERANCE     FLOWERS. 


[The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  observing  a  beautiful  vase  of 
flowers  every  evening  at  the  Charleston  Temperance  meetings. 
The  exquisite  original  of  Mrs.  Hemans  has  been  adhered  to  as 
far  as  practicable  with  the  change  of  sentiment.] 

BRING  flowers,  young  flowers  to  Temperance  Hall, 
From  gardens  where  dew-drops  have  loved  to  fall ; 
Bring  flowers,  they  are  springing  in  wood  and  vale, 
And  their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale, 
And  the  touch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the  rose, 
To  deck  the  fountain  whence  water  flows  ! 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  in  Reform's  pure  path, 
He  hath  shaken  thrones  in  his  noble  wrath ; 
He  comes  with  the  rescue  of  nations  back ;  — 
The  tempter  lies  crushed  in  his  chariot's  track, 
The  turf  looks  green  where  he  wins  the  day, 
Bring  flowers  to  bloom  in  Reform's  pure  way  ! 


196  TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC. 

Bring  Temperance  flowers  to  the  drunkard's  cell, 
They  have  tales  of  mercy  and  hope  to  tell ; 
Of  the  free  blue  streams,  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  glazing  eye ; 
They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  his  innocent  hours, 
And  a  dream  of  his  youth  —  bring  him  Temperance 
flowers  ! 

Bring  flowers  for  the  Temperance  bride  to  wear, 

They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair  ; 

She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth, 

She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth ; 

Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side, 

Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  Temperance  bride. 

Bring  flowers  to  the  Temperance  shrine  of  prayer, 

They  are  virtue's  offering,  their  place  is  there; 

They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart ; 

With  a  voice  of  promise,  they  come  and  part, 

They  slept  in  temptation's  wintry  hours :  — 

They  break  forth  in  glory — bring  Temperance  flowers  ! 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  184C. 


TEMPERANCE  SONGS,  ETC.  197 


THE  OYSTER'S  APPEAL  TO  THE  PUBLIC. 


O,  COME  to  my  rescue,  I  'm  prisoned  up  here 

With  mint-sling  and  julep,  strong  wine  and  strong  beer  ; 

I  pant  for  cold  water  amid  this  foul  air,  — 

Indeed  it  is  more  than  an  oyster  can  bear  ! 

Then  far  from  old  hollands,  vile  cocktail  and  sling, 
Dear  public,  in  water  your  supplicant  fling. 

That  my  prison  is  gilded  and  costly,  I  know, 
My  windows  are  painted,  my  blinds  make  a  show, 
And  my  sign  is  the  brightest  the  public  eye  greeting, 
Ay,  brighter  than  that  at  the  "Temperance  Meeting." 
But  take  me  away  from  rum,  cordial  and  sling, 
And  in  water,  cold  water,  your  supplicant  fling. 

My  curtains  are  gorgeous,  my  pictures  are  gay, 
Bright  glasses  are  rang'd  in  a  splendid  array  ; 


198  TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC. 

And  so  great  is  the  glare  and  the  blazing  at  night, 
That  ladies  stand  tiptoe  outside  at  the  sight. 
But  take  me  away  from  this  brandy  and  sling, 
And  into  cold  water  your  supplicant  fling. 

Yet  here  are  dark  corners  kept  even  from  me, 
Where  they  don't  call  for  oysters,  though  "Mill  Pond" 

they  be ; 

Sometimes  a  wild  curse  mutters  out  of  the  den, 
And  tones  like  the  anguish  of  agonized  men. 

Then  take  me  away  from  wine-cobblers  and  sling, 
And  into  the  water  your  supplicant  fling. 

That  sign  on  the  front  is  no  title  of  mine, 
Call  it  gin  house,  or  beer  house,  or  shambles  for  wine ; 
We  innocent  oysters,  no  longer,  in  sooth, 
Shall  be  cat's-paws  for  drunkards,  or  gins  to  catch  youth. 
So  take  me  away  from  ale,  cider  and  sling, 
And  into  cold  water  your  supplicant  fling. 

But  hark,  all  the  pipes  and  the  quarter  casks  grumble, 
Fourth  proof  and  brown  stout  seem  around  me  to  tumble, 
Old  holland  turns  pale,  and  the  wine  on  the  lees 
Looks  thick  like  a  drunkard  just  after  his  sprees  ; 
There 's  a  riotous  time  with  port,  sherry  and  sling, 
O,  into  cold  water,  your  supplicant  fling. 


TEMPERANCE    SONGS,  ETC.  199 

My  keeper  seems  nervous,  and  swears 'neath  his  breath, 
That  times  are  so  dull  we  shall  all  starve  to  death, 
I  pity  you,  master,  your  teeth  are  on  edge, 
For  custom  runs  low  since  the  Temperance  Pledge. 
Then  pray,  gentle  public,  just  give  me  a  fling 
To  water-laved  beds,  where  the  oyster  race  cling. 

But  if  you  must  eat  me,  be  merciful,  do, 

And  don't  let  me  live  with  this  dram-drinking  crew. 

Why,  even  an  oyster  is  wiser  than  those 

Who  revel  and  shout  where  the  full  goblet  flows ; 

Who  stagger,  and  totter,  and  gibber  and  swear, 

Or  sit  with  their  idiot-eyes  in  a  glare. 

So  give  us  a  temple,  if  worthy  to  eat, 

Where  the  modest  and  honest  can  come  for  a  treat, 

And  pull  down  the  blinds,  and  unpaint  all  the  glasses. 

And  look  out  like  men  when  the  traveller  passes. 
And  then  your  poor  oysters  will  fatten,  and  I, 
In  an  honest  vocation,  will  willingly  die. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1844. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY. 


[An  English  traveller  has  remarked,  that  when  Americans  speak 
of  the  relative  character  of  England  and  their  own  country,  "right 
or  wrong,  they  will  have  the  last  word."  This  is  illustrated  in 
the  following  thoughts,  excited  by  Mrs.  Hemans'  beautiful  and 
elevating  verses  to  "  The  English  Boy."] 

LOOK  up,  ray  young  American  ! 
Stand  firmly  on  the  earth, 
Where  noble  deeds,  and  mental  power, 
Give  titles  more  than  birth. 


A  hallowed  land  thou  claim'st,  my  boy, 
By  early  struggles  bought, 
Heaped  up  with  early  memories  — 
And  wide,  ay,  wide  as  thought  ! 


204  MISCELLANEOUS. 

On  the  high  Alleghany's  range, 
Awake  thy  joyous  song  ; 
Then  o'er  our  green  savannahs  stray, 
And  gentle  notes  prolong. 

Awake  it  mid  the  rushing  peal 
Of  dark  Niagara's  voice, 
Or  by  thine  ocean-rivers  stand, 
And  in  their  joy  rejoice. 

What  though  we  boast  no  ancient  towers, 
Where  "  ivied"  streamers  twine  ! 
The  laurel  lives  upon  our  soil,* 
The  laurel,  boy,  is  thine. 

What  though  no  "  minster  lifts  the  cross," 
Tinged  by  the  sunset  fire  1 
Freely  religion's  voices  float 
Round  every  village  spire. 


*  The  laurel  grows  in  its  beautiful  varieties  throughout  the 
United  States ;  the  kalmia  at  the  north ;  at  the  south,  the  splen 
did  magnolia  grandiflora. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  205 

And  who  shall  gaze  on  yon  "  blue  sea," 
If  thou  must  turn  away  ? 
When  free  Columbia's  stripes  and  stars 
Are  floating  in  the  day  ? 

Who  thunders  louder,  when  the  strife 
Of  gathering  war  is  stirred  1 
Who  ranges  further,  when  the  call 
Of  commerce'  voice  is  heard  1 

And  though  on  "Cressy's  distant  field  " 
Thy  gaze  may  not  bp  cast, 
While,  through  long  centuries  of  blood, 
Rise  spectres  of  the  past ; 

The  future  wakes  thy  dreamings  high, 
And  thou  a  note  mayst  claim, 
Aspiring,  which  in  after  times 
Shall  swell  the  trump  of  fame. 

Yet  scenes  are  here  for  tender  thought  — 
Here  sleep  the  good  and  brave  ! 
Here  kneel,  my  boy,  and  raise  thy  vow 
Above  the  patriot's  grave. 


206  MISCELLANEOUS. 

On  Moultrie's  isle,  on  Bunker's  height, 
On  Monmouth's  heated  line, 
On  Eutaw's  field,  on  Yorktown's  bank, 
Erect  thy  loyal  shrine ; 

And  when  thou'rt  told  of  "  knighthood's  shields," 
And  English  battles  won, 
Look  up,  my  boy,  and  breathe  one  word,  — 
The  name  of  Washington. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  207 


TO    A    FRIEND. 


THE  moon  that  proudly  treads  the  sky, 
Were  doubly  bright  if  thou  wert  nigh ; 
The  breeze  that  murmurs  on  mine  ear, 
Were  softer  still,  if  thou  wert  here; 
The  sky  would  beam  a  lovelier  blue, 
If  thou  couldst  whisper,  I  am  true ; 
And  thoughts  of  heaven  bear  firmer  sway, 
If  thou  shouldst  point,  and  lead  the  way. 


208  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THOUGHTS   ON    A   BALL   ROOM. 


THINK  not  I  view'd  with  vacant  soul 
That  glittering  scene  of  life  and  mirth ; 

Reflection  o'er  my  being  stole, 

And  gave  me  thoughts  not  born  for  earth. 

The  strongest  beam  of  sunny  days 
Shows  not  the  ocean's  treasur'd  store, 

Nor  could  you,  mid  that  dazzling  blaze, 
Perceive  my  heart's  religious  lore. 

That  eve,  amid  those  airy  forms, 

I  thought  of  Him  who  tints  the  rose, 

Reveals  the  rainbow  after  storms, 
And  in  the  western  sunset  glows  ; 

Of  Him  who  gave  the  elastic  tread, 
The  eye  of  fire,  the  manly  glow, 

The  cheek  where  roses  make  their  bed, 
The  pencill'd  lid,  the  brow  of  snow. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  209 

And  I  felt  grateful  for  the  grace 

Which  youth  and  beauty  throw  around  — 
The  buoyant  air,  the  mind-lit  face, 

The  charm  of  sight,  the  joy  of  sound. 

Nor  fear'd  I,  that  those  sunny  hours 
Would  scorch  the  buds  of  pious  bloom, 

More  than  I  fear  that  woodland  flowers 
In  gay  parterres  will  lose  perfume. 

Nor  did  T  chill  with  aspect  grave, 

Those  eyes,  which  soon  may  droop  with  tears, 
Those  hearts,  where  yet  in  grief  must  wave 

The  cypress  shade  of  coming  years. 

One  gentle  caution  kindly  given 

I  could  have  breath'd  to  every  ear  — 

Enjoy  ;  but  O,  forget  not  Heaven  — 
Enjoy  ;  but  seek  a  nobler  sphere. 


14 


210  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   MAIDEN'S   CHOICE. 


GENTEEL  in  personage, 
Conduct  and  equipage, 
Noble  in  heritage, 

Generous  and  free  ; 
Brave  and  romantic, 
Learned  not  pedantic, 
Frolic  not  frantic ; 

Thus  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 
Meanness  disdaining, 
Still  entertaining, 

Engaging  and  new ; 
Neat,  but  not  finical, 
Sage,  but  not  cynical, 
Never  tyrannical, 

But  ever  true. 

ANONYMOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  211 


THE    GENTLEMAN'S    CHOICE. 


OF  parentage  suitable, 
Pious  and  dutiful, 
Graceful  and  beautiful, 

Loving  but  me  ; 
Her  frolic  not  madness, 
Her  zeal  without  sadness, 
Her  smile  beaming  gladness, 

This  must  she  be. 

Hands  soft  and  delicate, 
Voice  like  sweet  music  set, 
Eyes  that  when  mine  are  met 

Kindling  rejoice, 
Patient  mid  chiding, 
Fond  and  confiding, 
At  home  still  abiding, 

This  is  my  choice. 


212  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE    COUNTERFEIT. 


OFF  with  that  stain  !    Rather  would  I  behold 
The  ghastly  whiteness  of  death's  bleaching  hand 
Than  see  thee  thus,  a  painted  show,  a  cheat, 
To  lure  the  eye,  to  lure  all  eyes  —  for  she 
Who  stains  the  velvet  softness  of  her  cheek 
Does  it  for  all —  for  vanity,  not  love. 

O,  once  methought  it  would  be  next  to  heaven 
To  lay  my  cheek  by  thine  ;  (at  least  in  dreams, 
For  love  respectful  ventures  not  so  near 
Its  idol ;)  but  away  —  Truth  is  my  idol, 
And  she  thou  art  not,  for  her  cheek  is  pure. 
Yes  ;  sooner  would  I  taste  that  faithless  fruit, 
With  looks  enticing  while  encasing  dust, 
Than  kiss  thy  cheek,  thou  roseate  lie !     Give  me 
To  press  the  paleness  of  the  lily's  leaf, 
And  I  will  nourish  it,  and  my  true  love 
Shall  pour  upon  its  petals  fair  a  glow 
Richer  than  thou  canst  draw  from  falsehood's  store ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  213 

Lips,  too?    Must  they  be  ting'd  by  art,  and  lose 
The  odorous,  balmy  dew  of  nature  ?     Nay, 
Speak  not.     Thy  words,  like  founts  once  pure,  become 
Over  those  poisonous  beds  denied  !     Go  back 
To  holy  nature,  lady,  and  a  heart 
That  longs  to  trust  thee  will  pour  out  its  love, 
And  kneel  with  thee,  once  more,  before  Truth's  shrine. 


214  MISCELLANEOUS. 


AN    INCIDENT. 


SHE  gave  me  violets. — 
All  know  these  flowers, 

The  simple,  lovely  things, 
Decking  bright  nature's  bowers 

With  blossomings  ! 
With  hidden  head 

They  throw  their  treasures  round, 
Where  careless  footsteps  tread 

The  scented  ground. 

She  gave  me  violets. — 
Not  in  the  time 

Of  laughing  summer's  sway, 
Nor  in  spring's  floral  prime, 

The  flowerets'  holiday  ;  — 
In  winter  wild, 

When  the  bleak  winds  were  chill, 
She  gave  them,  —  and  they  smiled,  - 

Were  odorous  still. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  215 

Sweet,  sober  violets ! 
Not  in  the  hall 

Where  beauty  smiles  and  glows, 
And  fairy  footsteps  fall, 

And  music  flows,  — 
In  the  retreat 

Of  Sabbath  were  ye  given, 
The  Church's  fane,  where  meet 

Warm  prayer  and  heaven. 

She  gave  me  violets, 
Whose  odor  spread 

Like  incense-prayer,  heaven-tending, 
While  each  slight,  delicate  head, 

Was  humbly  bending. 
The  blessed  child  — 

A  violet  was  she, 
Growing  on  this  world's  wild 

So  modestly. 


216  MISCELLANEOUS. 


SEVENTEEN. 

IN  childhood,  when  my  girlish  view 
Glanced  over  life's  unfading  green, 

Thoughts  undefin'd,  and  bright,  and  new, 
Would  blend  with  thee,  sweet  Seventeen. 

Restrain'd  at  twelve  by  matron  care, 

My  walks  prescrib'd,  my  movements  seen, 

How  bright  the  sun,  how  free  the  air 
Seem'd  circling  round  fair  Seventeen. 

Thirteen  arriv'd  ;  but  still  my  book, 

My  dress,  were  watch'd  with  aspect  keen, 

Scarce  on  a  novel  might  I  look, 

And  balls  —  must  wait  for  Seventeen. 

Fourteen  allowed  the  evening  walk 

Where  friendship's  eye  illum'd  the  scene  ; 
The  lono-  romantic  bosom-talk, 

O  ' 

That  talk,  which  glanced  at  Seventeen. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  217 

The  next  revolving  circle  brought 

A  quicker  pulse,  yet  graver  mien  ; 
I  read,  and  practis'd,  studied,  thought, 

For  what  ?  to  stop  at  Seventeen. 

Sixteen  arriv'd,  that  witching  year 

When  youthful  hearts  like  buds  are  seen, 

Ready  to  ope  as  first  appear 
The  genial  rays  of  Seventeen. 

They  came  —  have  passed  —  think  not,  fair  maids, 
My  hand  shall  draw  that  magic  screen; 

But  this  I  urge,  fill  well  your  heads, 
And  guard  your  hearts  for  Seventeen. 


218  MISCELLANEOUS. 


CHILDREN    AT   PLAY. 


SPORT  on  ;  sport  on  ; 

A  mother's  thought,  shadow  of  heavenly  love 
Dwells  on  you.     In  her  home,  mid  household  cares. 
Kindle  up  hopes,  which  deep  in  its  soft  folds 
Her  inmost  soul  has  wrapt.     She  musing  asks,  — 

"  What  his  high  fate,  that  boy  with  eagle  eye, 
And  well-knit  limbs,  and  proud  impetuous  thought? 
A  patriot,  leading  men,  and  breathing  forth 
His  warm  soul  for  his  country  ?  or  a  bard, 
With  holy  song  refining  earth's  cold  ear? 
A  son,  holding  the  torch  of  love  to  age 
As  its  closed  eye  turns  dimly  to  the  grave  ? 
Or  husband  wrapping  with  protecting  arms, 
One  who  leans  on  him  in  her  trusting  youth  ?  " 

"And  for  those  girls,"  she  asks,  "  what  gentle  fate 
Lies  cradled  on  the  softest  down  of  time  ? 
A  rosy  lot  must  garland  out  their  years  — 


MISCELLANEOUS.  219 

Those  sunny  eyes  with  laughing  spirits  wild, 
Those  rounded  limbs  are  all  unfit  for  want, 
Or  sterner  care.     Gently  will  they  be  borne 
On  beds  of  flowers  beneath  an  azure  sky." 

O  dreams,  fair  dreams  !    God's  dower  to  woman's 

heart, 

Your  light  and  waving  curtains  still  suspend 
Before  the  future  which  lies  dark  behind. 


220  MISCELLANEOUS. 


O  COME,   MAIDENS,   COME  ! 


BOAT    SONG. 


O  COME,  maidens,  come  o'er  the  blue  rolling  wave, 
The  lovely  should  still  be  the  care  of  the  brave. 

CHORUS. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  dillo,  dillo,  dillo, 
With  moon-light,  and  star-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  hillow, 
Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  the  billow,  billow,  billow,  billow, 
With  moon-light,  and  star-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow. 

The  moon  'neath  yon  cloud  hid  her  silvery  light  — 
Ye  are  come  —  like  our  fond  hopes  she  glows  in  your 
sight. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  moon-light,  and  love-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  moon-light,  and  love-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  221 

Wake  the  chorus  of  song,  and  our  oars  shall  keep  time, 
While  our  hearts  gently  beat  to  the  musical  chime. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  oar-beat,  and  heart-beat,  we  '11  bound  o'er  the  billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  oar-beat,  and  heart-beat,  we  '11  bound  o'er  the  billow. 


As  the  waves  gently  heave  under  zephyr's  soft  sighs, 
So  the  waves  of  our  hearts,  neath  the  glance  of  your 

eyes. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  eye-beam,  and  heart-beam,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  eye-beam,  and  heart-beam,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow. 


See  the  helmsman  looks  forth  to  yon  beacon-lit  isle; 
So  we  shape  our  hearts'  course  by  the  light  of  your 
smile  ! 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  love-light,  and  smile-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  love-light,  and  smile-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  the  billow. 


222  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  when  on  life's  ocean  we  turn  our  slight  prow, 
May  the  light-house  of  hope  beam  like  this  on  us  now. 

Life's  billow,  frail  billow,  the  billow,  billow,  billow, 
With  hope-light,  the  true-light,  we'll  bound  o'er  life's  billow, 

Life's  billow,  frail  billow,  &c. 
With  hope-light,  the  true  light,  we'll  bound  o'er  life's  billow. 

SULLIVAN'S  ISLAND,  S.  C.  1844. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  223 


TO    AN    INFANT    BOY. 


WELCOME,  soft  trembler,  to  our  arms ! 

We  clasp  in  love  thy  fragile  form ; 
And  struggling  with  our  smiles  and  tears, 

Receive  thee  mid  earth's  sun  and  storm. 

Helpless  immortal !     Strong,  though  weak  ! 

Even  now  thou  'rt  round  our  hearts  entwined, 
Thy  weakness  is  thy  strength,  nor  earth 

The  spell  thou  bringest  can  unbind. 

Ray  on  creation  !  May  thy  dawn 
Still  prove  serene  and  blest  as  now, 

And  earthly  shades  of  sorrow  flee 

From  thy  soft  breast  and  feeble  brow. 

Pure  opening  bud  !     Unfold  in  joy 

Beneath  the  fond  parental  eye, 
And  may  thy  blossoms  bless  their  path, 

While  theirs  are  ripening  for  the  sky. 


224  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Sweet  rainbow  on  life's  tearful  sphere  ! 

God's  promise  to  the  sad  heart  given  ! 
Shine  on  thy  parents'  gladdened  sight, 

And  be  the  bond  'twixt  them  and  Heaven. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  225 


HOUSEHOLD   WOMAN. 


GRACEFUL  may  seem  the  fairy  form, 
With  youth,  and  health,  and  beauty  warm, 
Gliding  along  the  airy  dance, 
Imparting  joy  at  every  glance. 

And  lovely,  too,  when  o'er  the  strings 
Her  hand  of  music  woman  flings, 
While  dewy  eyes  are  upward  thrown, 
As  if  from  Heaven  to  claim  the  tone. 

And  fair  is  she,  when  mental  flowers, 
Engage  her  soul's  devoted  powers, 
And  wreaths  —  unfading  wreaths  of  mind, 
Around  her  temples  are  entwin'd. 

But  never  in  her  varied  sphere 
Is  woman  to  the  heart  more  dear, 
Than  when  her  homely  task  she  plies, 
With  cheerful  duty  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  every  lowly  path  well  trod, 
Looks  meekly  upward  to  her  God. 
15 


22(5  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THOUGHTS    ON   ZERLINA   THORN. 

DROWNED     AT     TRENTON     FALLS. 


AND  art  thou  gone,  fair,  graceful  child  ? 
I  dreamed  not,  mid  this  cataract  wild, 

Thy  form  would  lie, 

When,  like  a  bright  and  budding  flower, 
I  met  thee  in  a  summer  bower, 

Life  in  thine  eye  ! 

I  saw  thee  in  the  airy  dance, 

With  floating  step,  with  kindling  glance, 

With  happy  brow ; 
A  brother's  arm  around  thee  clung, 
A  parent's  smile  upon  thee  hung, 

Where  art  thou  now  ? 

O  !  cold  and  dark  must  be  the  grave, 
Love-nurtur'd  one  !  —  the  dashing  wave 
Rocks  thy  death-sleep, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  227 

And  o'er  thy  glazed  and  unclosed  eye, 
The  high-heav'd  cliffs,  all  frowningly, 
Their  vigils  keep  ! 

But  why  repine,  though  summer  dews, 
And  flowers  of  soft  and  blended  hues 

Deck  not  thy  sod  ? 
Thy  spirit  from  the  wave  up-springs, 
Scatters  the  white  foam  from  its  wings, 

And  flies  to  God  ! 

TRENTON  FALLS,  N.  J. 


:228  MISCELLANEOUS. 


STANZAS. 


Would  you  not  love  a  lofty  monument  and  far-spread  fame  ? 

RAISE  not  for  me  the  towering  urn, 

That  draws  the  admiring  gazer's  eye  :  — 

Dust  unto  dust  will  careless  turn, 
While  these  proud  pageants  multiply. 

Wake  not  for  me  the  thrilling  peal 
Of  funeral  anthems,  full  and  deep  :  — 

No  tones  of  earth  the  dead  can  feel, 
Not  e'en  the  sobs  of  those  who  weep. 

Strike  not  for  me  the  poet's  lyre 

To  magnify  some  passing  fame  ; 
The  vaults  of  death  will  chill  his  fire, 

Nor  glow  at  the  Pierian  flame. 

Careless  am  I  what  spot  of  earth 
Receives  this  frail  and  sinking  clod; 

Enough,  if  by  a  heavenly  birth 
I  wake  to  bliss, —  a  child  of  God. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ST.    MICHAEL'S   TOWER. 

ST.  MICHAEL'S  spire  !  St.  Michael's  spire  ! 

How  fair  thou  risest  to  the  sight, — 
Now,  glittering  in  the  noon-sun's  fire, 

Now,  softened  by  the  "  pale  moonlight !  " 

Dread  storms  have  thunder'd  o'er  the  sea, 
And  crush'd  the  low,  and  rent  the  high : 

*  O        ' 

But  there  thou  standest  firm  and  free, 
With  thy  bright  forehead  to  the  sky. 

Fierce  fires  in  rolling  volumes  came, 
But  gleam'd  innocuous  on  thy  tower, 

War's  cannon  roared  with  breath  of  flame, 
Scatheless  for  thee  career'd  its  power. 

Symmetric  spire*!     Our  city's  boast, 

In  scientific  grandeur  piled  ! 
The  guardian  beacon  of  our  coast, 

The  seaman's  hope  when  waves  are  wild  ! 


230  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Palladium  !  on  thy  lonely  height, 

The  faithful  watchman  walks  his  round, 

While  rest  and  safety  rule  the  night, 
And  stillness,  as  of  holy  ground. 

All  sleep  but  thee  —  thy  tuneful  bells 
Hymn  to  the  night-wind  in  its  roar, 

Or  float  upon  the  Atlantic  swells, 
That  soften  summer  on  our  shore. 

Soother  of  sickness  !  Oft  thy  chime 
A  gentle  voice  to  darkness  lends ; 

And  speaks  a  language  deep,  sublime, 
When  love  o'er  dying  virtue  bends. 

• 
Thou  guid'st  the  youth  to  classic  hours, 

The  laborer  to  his  task  confm'd  ; 
The  maid,  to  joy's  resplendent  bowers, 

The  ambitious,  to  the  strife  of  mind. 

Thy  Sabbath  summons,  not  in  vain, 
Calls  the  mixed  city  to  their  God ; 

Each  gravely  seeks  his  chosen  fane, 

And  treads  the  aisle  his  sires  have  trod. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  nobly  do  thy  paeans  flow, 

When  patriots  shout  the  annual  strain, 
That  echoes  from  far  Mexico, 

To  where  St.  Lawrence  holds  his  reign. 

Gliding  along  bold  Ashley's  stream, 
Or  Cooper's,  hung  with  mossy  grace, 

We  turn  to  gaze  upon  thy  beam, 
And  hospitable  joys  retrace. 

And  tender  are  the  thoughts  that  rise, 
When,  sea-bound  from  thy  level  shore, 

The  tear  of  parting  dims  our  eyes 
Till  we  can  view  thy  point  no  more. 

And  when  returning  to  our  land, 
The  summer  exile  nears  his  home, 

How  beats  his  heart,  and  waves  his  hand, 
As  first  he  greets  thy  welcome  dome. 

St.  Michael's  spire!  I  close  my  lay, 
Touch'd  by  the  moral  thou  hast  given, 

Though  duties  throng  my  earthly  way, 
My  look,  like  thine,  shall  be  to  Heaven. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1830. 


232  MISCELLANEOUS. 


MOTHER,   WHAT  IS   DEATH? 

"  MOTHER,  how  still  the  baby  lies  — 

I  cannot  hear  his  breath  ; 
I  cannot  see  his  laughing  eyes  — 

They  tell  me  this  is  death. 

"  My  little  work  I  tried  to  bring, 

And  sit  down  by  his  bed, 
And  pleasantly  I  tried  to  sing,  — 

They  hushed  me  — he  is  dead. 

"  They  say  that  he  again  will  rise, 
More  beautiful  than  now,  — 

That  God  will  bless  him  in  the  skies  — 
O,  mother,  tell  me  how  !  " 

"  Daughter,  do  you  remember,  dear, 
The  cold  dark  thing  you  brought, 

And  laid  upon  the  casement  here,  — 
A  wither'd  worm  you  thought? 


MISCELLANEOUS.  233 

"  I  told  you  that  Almighty  power 

Could  break  that  wither'd  shell, 
And  show  you,  in  a  future  hour, 

Something  would  please  you  well. 

"  Look  at  the  chrysalis,  my  love,  — 

An  empty  shell  it  lies;  — 
Now  raise  your  wandering  thoughts  above, 

To  where  yon  insect  flies  !  " 

"  O  yes,  mamma,  how  very  gay 

Its  wings  of  starry  gold  — 
And  see  !  it  lightly  flies  away 

Beyond  my  gentle  hold. 

"  O,  mother,  now  I  know  full  well  — 

If  God  that  worm  can  change, 
And  draw  it  from  its  broken  cell, 

On  golden  wings  to  range  ; 

"  How  beautiful  will  brother  be, 

When  God  shall  give  him  wings 
Above  this  dying  world  to  flee, 

And  live  with  heavenly  things." 

1827. 


234  MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  SKETCH. 


THE  gay  saloon  was  thronged  with  grace  and  beauty, 
While  brilliant  rays  shone  out  on  lovely  eyes, 
And  lovely  eyes  look'd  forth  a  clearer  beam. 

Fashion  was  there  —  not  in  her  flaunting  robes, 
Lavish  of  charms —  but  that  fair  sprite,  who  moulds 
All  to  her  touch,  yet  leaves  it  nature  still. 

The  light  young  laugh  came  reed-like  on  the  ear, 
Touching  the  chord  of  joy,  electrical ; 
And  smiles,  too  graceful  for  a  sound,  pass'd  out 
From  ruby  lips,  like  perfume  from  a  flower. 

Catching  the  gracious  word  of  courtesy, 
The  listening  maid  turn'd  to  the  speaker's  eye ; 
And  bowing  in  his  honor'd  lowliness, 
His  manly  head  inclin'd  to  her  slight  form. 

There  was  a  hum  of  social  harmony, 
"  Like  the  soft  south  "  upon  the  rushing  seas. 
Between  its  pauses,  burst  the  harp's  rich  tone, 
Pour'd  out  by  one,  who  fill'd  the  Poet's  eye 
With  fond  fruition  of  his  classic  dream. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  235 

A  voice  was  there  —  clear  and  distinct  it  rose 
Like  evening's  star  when  other  stars  are  dim :  — 
Clear,  sweet  and  lonely,  as  that  southern  bird's 
Who  on  far  turrets  trills  his  midnight  lay. 
In  the  heart's  cavern,  deep  that  voice  went  down, 
Waking  up  echoes  of  the  silent  past. 

O,  woman  !  lovely  in  thy  beauty's  power  ! 
Thrice  lovely,  when  we  know  that  thou  canst  turn 
To  duty's  path,  and  tread  it  with  a  smile. 


236  MISCELLANEOUS. 


HER    NIGHT    BLOOMING   CEREUS. 


AT  morn,  when  nature  lay  in  early  dew, 
At  noon,  when  shading  branches  screen'd  the  sun, 
At  twilight,  when  the  parting  glow  of  day 
Blush'd  on  her  cheek,  or  kiss'd  her  wavy  hair, 
Or,  when  the  moon  with  silver  radiance  ting'd, 
Flooded  its  growing  leaves  —  she  watched  her  bud. 

It  oped  its  gentle  eye  at  evening  hour, 
Slow  as  the  virgin's  from  a  happy  dream ; 
Her  dark  glance  turn'd  upon  its  petals  pure, 
And  soft  as  pure,  like  new-bath'd  infancy; 
Her  fring'd  lids,  trembling  with  her  eager  joy, 
Bow'd  o'er  its  stamens,  fring'd,  and  trembling  too. 

Odors  stole  up  in  silence  from  its  leaves, 
And  met  those  lips,  that,  bent  in  curious  joy, 
Sent  back  their  perfume,- to  its  scented  cell. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  237 

She  gazed  far  down  that  many  stamen'd  cell, 

And  saw  the  mysteries  of  Flora's  shrine. 

O,  lady,  study  thus  the  opening  folds 

Of  thy  young  heart's  deep  fount,  and  thou  shalt  find 

As  tender  mysteries  there,  as  sweet  and  strange ; 

And  know,  that  naught  but  Deity  could  frame 

That  flower  and  thee. 

It  is  a  "  thrice  told  "  prayer 
I  ask  for  thee,  fair  student  of  this  flower, 
Yet  not  less  grateful  that  it  is  not  new  ; 
When  sorrow's  night  shall  come,  and  come  it  will 
To  shade  the  flushing  of  thy  happy  prime, 
May  flowers  like  this  burst  forth  amid  the  gloom, 
And  cheer  and  bless  thy  way. 


238  MISCELLANEOUS. 


CITY  CLOUDS  AND  STARS 


"  I  was  rear'd 
In  the  great  city  — 
And  saw  naught  lovely,  but  the  sky  and  stars." 

COLERIDGE. 

YE  bless'd  me  in  my  childish  hour, 

White  clouds,  that,  sailing  by, 
Early  awoke  a  spell  of  power, 

And  won  my  gazing  eye. 

And  stars,  ye  glittering  toys  of  heaven, 

When  on  my  couch  I  wept, 
To  you  my  youthful  thoughts  were  given, 

And  thinking  thus,  I  slept. 

Still  blessingly  ye  look  below  ;  — 
When  to  the  world's  cold  bourne 

Mechanical  my  footsteps  go, 
My  eyes  to  you  upturn. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  239 

The  friends  I  've  lost,  the  lov'd,  the  fair, 

On  those  white  foldings  laid, 
Come  floating  on  the  parting  air, 

In  breezy  light  array'd. 

What  though  the  city's  serried  wall 

Hides  nature  from  my  sight  ? 
Upward  I  look,  and  there  ye  all 

Beam  forth  in  lovely  light. 

O,  I  forget  forgetting  friends, 

Nor  weep  at  envious  foes  ; 
Your  silent  gaze  a  ray  extends 

That  heals  me  as  it  flows. 

Beautiful  ministers  of  love, 

Take,  take  me  upward  too  ; 
I  ask  a  resting-place  above, 

To  shine  and  bless  with  you  ! 

Like  you  look  down  on  aching  eyes, 

Tir'd  with  earth's  fitful  glare, 
And  kindly  float  o'er  bursting  sighs, 

And  hover  o'er  despair. 


240  MISCELLANEOUS. 

O  stars,  and  clouds,  and  azure  ray, 
Day-dawn,  and  evening-glow, 

Still  o'er  my  fading  fancy  play, 
Still  to  my  being  grow  ! 

And  when  death's  winding-sheet  shall  fold 

Coldly  my  fading  form, 
Thus  glitter  in  the  wintry  cold, 

Or  struggle  through  the  storm  ; 

Or  through  the  sultry  summer  day, 

Your  fleecy  mantle  weave, 
Or  stud  with  gems  and  colors  gay, 

The  sober  brow  of  eve; 

O  stars,  and  sky,  and  fleecy  cloud, 

Wait  ye,  and  silent  wave 
Your  standards  mid  the  city's  crowd, 

Above  my  trodden  grave. 

CHARLESTON,  S.  C.  1824. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  241 


A   LAMENT, 


OVER    A    FAILING    MUSICAL    VOICE. 


WHERE  art  thou,  friend  of  former  years, 
Thou  pleasant  voice  of  song, 

That  gushed  from  out  my  inmost  heart 
In  carol  soft  or  strong  ? 

O,  I  remember  still  thy  lays, 

Trilled  off  with  thoughtless  glee, 

Amid  my  toys  or  garden  walks, 
Or  'neath  the  spreading  tree. 

I  can  recall  the  nursery  song 
That  soothed  my  kitten's  cries, 

And  that  low  note  that  sought  to  shut 
My  dolly's  staring  eyes. 
16 


242  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  I  remember,  as  a  dream, 
My  mother's  tender  pride, 

When  calling  her  young  singing  bird 
To  warble  by  her  side. 

With  head  erect,  hands  clasped  before, 

And  curtsy  fitly  train'd, 
I  gave  the  shrill,  ambitious  song 

With  voice  unduly  strain'd. 

And  humbler,  holier  notes  than  these, 
Come  back  through  distant  years, 

The  hymning  at  that  mother's  knee, 
Who  bless'd  me  through  her  tears. 

Then  higher  feeling  rose  and  grew 
With  strong,  profound  control, 

Till  rich  romance  swept  o'er  my  life, 
And  lent  my  voice  a  soul. 

On  sunny  hills,  in  woodland  depths, 

The  silver  stream  along, 
Mid  meadow  flowers  and  orchard  fruits, 

I  poured  the  dreamy  song. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  243 

And  when  the  moon  with  chastened  smile, 

Look'd  downward  on  mine  eye, 
And  her  soft  radiance  thrill'd  my  frame, 

It  rose  in  ecstasy. 

Next  Friendship  woke  my  heart's  young  tune, 

As,  hand  by  hand  still  prest, 
Her  eyes,  like  eyes  of  cherubim, 

Look'd  deep  within  my  breast. 

And  Love  stole  near,  and  as  he  stirr'd 

That  heart's  unruffled  sea, 
Tears,  smiles,  and  sighs  alternate  rose, 

Struggling  for  melody. 

Who  hath  been  young,  nor  own'd  that  love 

Is  like  the  fabled  ray, 
Waking  the  spirit  into  song 

As  breaks  life's  sunny  day? 

Then  came  the  carol  here  and  there, 

Heard  from  the  busy  wife,  — 
Snatches  of  song  that  lighten  up 

The  toils  and  cares  of  life. 


244  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  then  the  gentle  lullaby 
That  sooth'd  the  babe  to  rest, 

As,  sinking  like  a  twilight  flower, 
He  nestled  on  my  breast,  — 

Unconscious  of  the  eyes  that  gaz'd 
With  fond  devotion  there, 

Unconscious  of  the  broken  song, 
That  form'd  itself  to  prayer. 

Nor  be  thy  sacred  notes  forgot, 

Voice  of  the  by-gone  days ! 
The  lay  of  evening  penitence, 

The  morning  hymn  of  praise. 

• 

Nor  yet  th'  inspiring,  holy  swell 
Of  Sabbath's  blessed  chime, 

Which  bore  upon  its  upward  wing 
The  cares  of  earth  and  time. 

O,  truant  voice  of  former  song, 

Return,  return  again  ! 
My  heart  is  young,  awake  once  more 

Thy  glad  and  solemn  strain. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  '245 

The  bright  round  hills  are  standing  still, 

The  woodland  depths  are  green, 
The  orchards  glow  with  autumn  fruit, 

And  streamlets  glide  between  ; 

The  lovely  moon  still  mounts  her  car, 

Flooding  the  earth  and  sea,  — 
Voice  of  my  youth,  on  that  bright  ray 

Why  glid'st  thou  not  to  me? 

Friendship  is  true,  and  love  still  warm, 
And  Sabbath  hymns  are  sung,  — 

With  passionate  appeal  I  ask, 
Why  leave  thy  lyre  unstrung  ? 

How  silent !  —  but  methinks  I  hear 

A  whisper  from  afar, 
That  tells  me  we  shall  meet  again 

Where  new-cloth' d  voices  arc  ! 

And  mine,  mine  own,  will  sound  once  more 

Amid  the  eternal  choir, 
And  swell  in  loftier,  sweeter  strains, 

To  some  celestial  lyre. 

1830. 


240  MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER. 


THOU  wert  my  pride  in  babyhood,  a  bright  and  fairy 

thing, 
With  dimpling  smiles,   and   mottled  arms,  and  quick 

elastic  spring  ; 

With  teeth  that  lay  like  little  shells  upon  a  coral  bed, 
And  hair  as  soft  as  gossamer  by  summer  breezes  sped. 

Thou  wert  my  pride  when  thy  first  word   in   broken 

accents  woke, 
And  thought  from  out  its  prison-cell  in  simple  phrases 

broke  ; 
And  when  thy  tottling  velvet  feet  the  spell  of  weakness 

spurned, 
And  to  my  arms,  with  frantic  laugh,  thy  outspread  arms 

were  turned  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  247 

Thou  wert  my  pride   in   childhood,  when  demurely  to 

thy  school, 
Thou  trod'st  thy  way  industrious,  beneath  a  teacher's 

rule  ; 
And  when  each  swift  revolving  year  a  learned  honor 

brought, 
In  shape  of  shining  premium,   by  scholar-craft  still 

bought. 

Proud  was  I  of  thy  tuneful  art,  when  thought,  matured 

and  free, 

Lent  to  thy  voice  and  words  a  tone  of  golden  minstrelsy  ; 
I've  closed  my  eyes,  and  dreamed  that  such  would  be 

the  seraph  strain 
That   to  the  spirit-world  would  call  my   spirit  back 

again. 

Proud  was  I  of  thy  household  step,  with   all  its  busy 

arts, 

Which  to  the  social  fire-side  life  its  quietness  imparts; 
I  joyed  to  hear  thy  broken  song,  thy  light  and  careless 

jest, 

Spring  forth  when   aiming  thus  to  make  the  friends 
who  love  thee  blest. 


248  MISCELLANEOUS. 

But  now  I  have  a  tenderer  pride.    Yes,  when  upon  my 

frame 
With    aching   head,    and   throbbing  pulse,  the   fever 

tempest  came, 
And  I  saw  thine  eye  in  sympathy  bend  o'er  my  restless 

bed, 
And  saw  thy  form  go  quietly,  with  gently  thoughtful 

tread  — 

And  felt  thy  kiss  of  lovingness  fall  sweetly  on  my  cheek, 
And  heard  thy  voice  in  whisperings  thy  patient  nursing 

speak  — 

I  knew  how  pain  and  weariness  by  love  can  be  beguiled, 
And  turned  to  Heaven  indeed  with  pricle,  that  thou, 

thou  art  my  child. 

1833. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  249 


MIDNIGHT   AT   SULLIVAN'S   ISLAND. 


SHE  sleeps,  my  own  fair  city,  and  the  moon 
Looks  down  with  guardian  eyes,  as  clear  and  still 
As  a  fond  mother's  o'er  her  infant  child  — 
As  still  —  as  wakeful.  —  How  profound  her  sleep  ! 

The  light-house  fire  burns  on,  emblem  of  Him 
Who  rests  not  mid  the  slumbering,  but  on  high 
Holds  his  bright  torch  o'er  yet  uncounted  worlds. 
Peace  is  around  in  nature  —  peace  and  joy! 
Scarcely  a  cloud  is  seen,  save  one,  which  like 
A  veil  o'er  beauty  lends  a  softer  ray 
To  heaven's  bright  eyes,  that  look  out  through  the  stars, 
While  the  west  wind,  in  gentle  breezes,  sweeps 
The  gentle  wave. 

How  distant  yet  how  near 
Seems  the  great  city  —  near ;  for  I  have  heard 
The  sounding  bell  when  the  tenth  hour  was  toll'd ;  — 


250  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Near,  for  I  see  the  fading  lights  retire, 

As  one  by  one  men  seek  oblivious  rest. 

The  old  man  goes  to  sleep  through  dreamless  hours, 

Unless  perchance  a  thought  of  youth  steals  in 

And  opens  the  far  past ;  —  and  childhood  sleeps, 

Its  light  breast  heaving  like  the  young  pine  tops, 

When  sway'd  by  southern  winds,  that  die  in  calms. 

Some  sink  upon  their  pillow,  tired  of  life, 

And  heavily  lie  down  to  shut  their  eyes 

On  earth's  cold  vanities;  some,  haunted  by 

Fierce  crimes,  toss  on  a  restless  couch  and  sigh 

For  breaking  morn  ;  some,  bless'd  with  virtue's  meed, 

A  happy  heart,  close  their  soft  lids  and  dream 

Of  good  deeds  done,  and  blessings  yet  in  store. 

And  is  crime  brooding  now,  o'er  that  still  scene, 
Active,  and  eager,  in  these  tranquil  hours  ? 
O,  may  Heaven  shield  thee,  city  of  my  heart  — 
Home  of  my  household  —  where  my  dead  repose  ! 
God  guard  the  living  —  would  that  I  could  hear 
Their  sleeping  breath,  and  bless  them  as  they  lie  ! 
The  dead  need  not  my  blessing  —  safe  are  they. 

How  far  she  seems,  the  city  of  my  love  ! 
The  kindling  spark  might  wrap  her  towers  in  flame, 
And  my  weak  voice  sound  faint  as  insect's  wing, 
When  thunders  shake  the  air  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  251 

My  yearning  soul 

Looks  towards  her,  as  the  fluttering  bird  that  leaves 
Its  mother's  nest  too  soon,  and  pants  for  home. 
O,  I  am  lonely  in  this  midnight  scene. 
God  guard  the  sleepers  —  I  will  go  and  pray. 

1828. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS. 


MY    PIAZZA. 


MY  piazza,  ray  piazza  !  some  boast  their  lordly  halls 
Where   soften'd  gleams  of  curtain'd  light  on   golden 

treasure  falls, 
AVhere  pictures  in  ancestral  rank  look  stately  side  by 

side, 
And  forms  of  beauty  and  of  grace  move  on  in  living 

pride ! 

I  envy  not  the  gorgeousness  that  decks  the  crowded 

room, 
Where  vases  with  exotic  flowers  throw  out  their  sick 

perfume, 
With  carpets  where  the  slippered  foot   sinks  soft   in 

downy  swell, 
And  mirror'd  walls  reflect  the  cheek  where   dimpled 

beauties  dwell. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  253 

My  fresh  and  cool  piazza!  I  seek  the  healthy  breeze 

That  circles  round  thy  shading  vines  and  softly- 
waving  trees, 

With  step  on  step  monotonous,  I  tread  thy  level 
floor, 

And  muse  upon  the  sacred  past  or  calmly  look  be 
fore. 

My  bright  and  gay  piazza!  I  love  thee  in  the  hour, 
When  morning  decks  with  dewy  gems  the  wavy  blade 

and  flower, 
When  the  small  bird  lights   and  sings  his  song  upon 

the  neighboring  tree, 
As  if  his  notes  were  only  made  to  cheer  himself  and 

me. 

My  cool  and  fresh  piazza!  I  love  thee  when  the  sun 
His  long  and  fervid  circuit  o'er  the  burning  earth  has 

run, 
I  joy  to  watch  his  parting  light  loom  upward  to  the 

eye, 
And   view   the   pencil-touch    shade  off   and   then   in 

softness  die. 


254  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Contemplative  piazza  !  I  love  in  twilight  gloom 

To  see  the  crescent  moon  tread  forth  through  heaven's 

o'er-arching  room, 
To  inhale  the  breath  of  closing  flowers,  to  hear  the 

night-bird's  cry, 
As  with  a  floating  wing  he  soars  and  cuts  the  fading 

sky. 

i 

My  sociable  piazza  !  I  prize  thy  quiet  talk, 

When    arm    in    arm    with   one   I   love,   I   tread    the 

accustomed  walk  ; 
Or  loll  within  our  rocking-chairs,  not  over   nice   or 

wise, 
And  yield  the  careless  confidence  where  heart  to  heart 

replies. 

My  piazza,  my  piazza!  my  spirit  oft  rejoices 

When   from  thy  distant  nooks  I  hear  the  sound  of 

youthful  voices, 
The  careless  jest,  the  bursting  laugh,  the  carol  wildly 

say> 

Or  cheerful  step  with  exercise  that  crowns  the  studious 
day. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  255 

My  beautiful  piazza!  them  hast  thy  nightly  boast; 
When  brightly  in  the  darken'd  sky  appear  the  heavenly 

host, 
Arcturus  glows  more  brilliantly  than  monarch's  blazing 

gem, 
And  fair  Corona  sits  enshrined,  like  angel's  diadem. 

My  lov'd  and  lone  piazza  !  the  dear  ones  have  departed, 
And  each,  their  nightly  pillow  seek,  the  young   and 

happy-hearted ; 
I  linger  still,  —  a  solemn   hush  is  brooding  o'er  the 

skies, 
A  solemn  hush  upon  the  earth  in  tender  silence  lies. 

I  feel  as  if  a  spirit's  wing  came  near  and  brush'd  my 

heart, 
And  bade  before  I  yield  to  sleep  earth's  heavy  cares 

depart,  — 

Father,  in  all  simplicity  I  breathe  the  prayer  I  love, 
O,  watch  around  my  slumbering  form,  or  take  my  soul 

above. 


25G  MISCELLANEOUS. 


MY   GARDEN. 


MY  garden  fresh  and  beautiful,  the  spell  of  frost  is  o'er, 

And  earth  sends  out  its  varied  leaves,  a  rich  and  lavish 
store  ; 

My  heart  too  breaks  its  wintry  chain,  with  stem,  and 
leaf  and  flower, 

And  glows  in  hope  and  happiness  amid  the  spring 
tide  hour. 


'Tis  sunset  in  my  garden; — the  flowers  and    buds 

have  caught 
Bright  revelations  from  the  skies  in  wondrous  changes 

wrought ; 

And,  as  the  twilight  hastens  on,  a  spiritual  calm 
Seems  resting  on  the  quiet  leaves,  which  evening  dews 

embalm. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  257 

'T  is  moonlight  in  my  garden;  like  some  fair  babe  at 

rest 
The  day-flower  folds  its  silky  wing  upon  its  pulseless 

breast ; 
Nor   is  it   vain   philosophy  to   think   that  plants  may 

keep 

A  holiday  of  airy  dreams  beneath  their  graceful  sleep. 

'T  is  morning  in  my  garden  ;  —  each  leaf  of  crisped 

green 
Hangs  tremulous  in  diamond  gems,  with  em'rald  rays 

between  ; 

It  is  the  birth  of  nature,  —  baptiz'd  in  early  dew, 
The  plants  look  meekly  up  and  smile  as  if  their  God 

they  knew. 

My  garden  fair  and  brilliant !  —  the  butterfly  outspread 
Alights  with  gentle  fluttering  on  the  wall-flower's  golden 

head, 
Then  darting  to   the  lily  bed,  floats  o'er  its  sheeted 

white, 
And  settles  on  the  violet's  cup  with  fanciful  delight. 

My  quiet  little  garden  !  — I  hear  the  rolling  wheel 
Of  the  city's  busy  multitude  along  the  highway  peal, 
17 


2o8  MISCELLANEOUS. 

I  tread  thy  paths  more  fondly,  and  inhale  the  circling  air 
That  glads  and  cools  me  on  its  way  from  that  wide  mart 
of  care. 

My  friendly  little  garden!  few  worldly  goods  have  I 
To  tender  with  o'erflowing  heart  in  blessed  charity, 
But  like  the  cup  of  water,  by  a  pure  disciple  given, 
An  herb  or  flower  may  tell  its  tale  of  kindliness  in 
heaven. 

My  small  herbescent  garden !  what  though  I  may  not 

raise 

High  tribute  to  thy  fruitfulness  in  these  familiar  lays, 
Yet  when  thy  few  shrunk  radishes  I  pluck  with  eager 

haste, 
They  seem  a  daintier  food  to  me  than  gods  ambrosial 

taste. 

As  as  for  those  three  artichokes,  the  fruit  of  toilsome 

care, 
And  my  angel-visit  cucumbers,  that  come  so  sparse 

and  rare, 
And  the  straggling  ears  of  corn  that  shoot  so  meagre, 

thin,  and  small, 
To  me  they  still  outweigh  the  hoards  that  crowd  the 

market  stall. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  259 

I  own  I  have  mistakenly  oft  train'd  a  vulgar  weed, 
And  rooted  up  with  savage  hand   some  choice  and 

costly  seed, 
And  boiled  a  precious  bulbous-root  of  lineage  high 

and  rare, 
And   planted  onions  in  a  jar   with  most  superfluous 

care; 

But  truth  springs  out  of  error,  and  right  succeeds  to 

wrong, 
Mistakes  that  wound,  and  weeds  that  vex,  give  moral? 

to  my  song, 
They  bid  me  clear  my  mental  soil  and  calmly  look 

within, 
To   check   the   growth   of   earth's  wild   weeds  —  of 

passion  and  of  sin. 

To  nobler  themes,  and  hopes,  and  joys,  my  garden 

culture  tends  ; 
To  that  high  world  where  only  flower  without   the 

weed  ascends, 

I  lift  my  soul  in  reverie,  enraptur'd  and  alone, 
Still  coining  links  of  thought  that  wreathe  my  spirit  to 

God's  throne. 


269  MISCELLANEOUS. 


Yet  sadness  sometimes  fills  my  mind,  as  each  unfolding 

sweet 
Springs  up  in  ready  beauty  beneath  my  household's 

feet, 
For  some  young  hand  that  gathers  now  the  plants  that 

gaily  wave, 
May  shortly  lie  in  wither'd   bloom  within  the  dreary 

grave. 

My  faith-inspiring  garden !  —  thy  seeds  so  dark  and 

cold 
Late  slept   in  utter  loneliness  amid   earth's  senseless 

mould ; 
No  sunbeams  fell  upon  them,  nor  west  wind's  gentle 

breath, 
But  there  they  lay  in  nothingness,  an  image  meet  of 

death. 

Now,  lo  !   they  rise  in  gorgeous  ranks,  and  glad  the 

eager  eye, 

And  on  the  wooing  summer  breeze  their  odor  passes  by ; 
The  flower-grave  cannot   chain    them,  the   spirit-life 

upsprings, 
And  scatters  beauty  in  its  path  from  thousand  unseen 

wings. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  261 


MY   KNITTING    WORK. 


YOUTH'S   buds  have  oped   and  fallen  from   my  life's 

expanding  tree, 
And  soberer  fruits  have  ripen'd  on  its  harden'd  stalks 

for  me  ; 

No  longer  with  a  buoyant  step  I  tread  my  pilgrim  way, 
And  earth's  horizon  closer  bends  from  hastening  day 

to  day. 

No  more  with  curious  questioning  I  seek  the  fervid 

crowd, 
Nor  to  ambition's  glittering  shrine  I  feel  my  spirit 

bowed, 

But,  as  bewitching  flatteries  from  worldly  ones  depart, 
Love's  circle  narrows  deeply  about  my  quiet  heart. 

Home  joys  come  thronging  round  me,  bright,  blessed, 

gentle,  kind ; 
The  social  meal,  the  fireside  book,    unfetter'd  mind 

with  mind  ; 


262  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  unsought  song  that  asks  no  praise,   but  spirit- 

stirr'd  and  free, 
Wakes   up   within   the  .thoughtful    soul    remember'd 

melody. 

Nor  shall  my  humble  knitting  work  pass  unregarded 

here, 
The  faithful  friend  who  oft  has  chas'd  a  furrow  or  a 

tear, 
Who  comes  with  still  unwearied  round  to  cheer  my 

failing  eye, 
And  bid  the  curse  of  ennui  from  its  polished  weapon? 

fly. 

Companionable  knitting    work  !    when  gayer    friends 

depart, 
Thou   hold'st   thy   busy   station    even  very  near  my 

heart ; 

And  when  no  social  living  tones  to  sympathy  appeal, 
I  hear  a  gentle  accent  from  thy  softly  clashing  steel. 

My  confidential  knitting  work  !    a   trusty   friend   art 

thou, 
As  smooth  and  shining  on  my  lap  thou  liest  beside  me 

now ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  263 

Thou  know'st  some  stories  of  my  thoughts  the  many 

may  not  know, 
As  round  and  round  the  accustom'd  path  my  careful 

fingers  go. 

Sweet,  silent,  quiet  knitting  work  !    thou  interruptest 

not 
My   reveries    and   pleasant   thoughts,    forgetting    and 

forgot ! 
I  take  thee  up,  and  lay  thee  down,  and  use  thee  as  I 

may, 
And  not  a  contradicting  word  thy  burnish'd  lips  will 

say. 

My  moralizing  knitting  work!  thy  threads  most  aptly 

show 
How   evenly    around    life's    span    our    busy   threads 

should  go ; 
And  if  a  stitch  perchance  should  drop,  as  life's  frail 

stitches  will, 
How,  if  we  patient  take  it  up,  the  work  may  prosper 

still. 


THE  END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  085  503     1 


